Coffee tastes better when it rains, I think. But does it really? Does it change the aroma that percolates up in in my palate, into my dreary senses. Awakening me.

Thursday again. The cycles of the week, the cycles of the month continues.

I think by definition that is what cycle means. It just goes on. Everyday, every month, every year. Eating away our time minute by minute, second by second.

Fading our dreams into this hazy past that seems to always happen for no reason other than create questions. Did it really happen? Did I really do those things, and if I did, why? It didn’t seem like I was there at all. It doesn’t even feel like it was me there doing the things I did. It’s like a different person, a movie playback of some sort. Every time I try to do something different, to learn from the past, the same thing happens. The same hazy person seems to do these things, and when I look back and I see the same movie, I feel the same way.

Maybe it doesn’t really exist. The past, that is. And we wake up everyday as a different person. All of past is some implanted memory — a dream of some sort.

It stopped raining. Not for long I hope. I want more of the rain. I want to hear that tapping sound on the roof. That gushing sound on the sidewalk. See streaks of raindrop dribble down my window pane.

I like the rain. And coffee.

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