Untitled and unfinished

Rain is falling delicately just outside my window. I see the individual droplets being splashed onto my window, and the light drizzling on top of the concrete around my home. The sight pleases me. I think of the smell -- that wonderful smell of rain on asphalt. It soothes me, relaxes me; it brings me to a new level of conciousness. What power smells have over the mind. Reminscence flows like water through my neuronal connexions; axons and dendrites excited by nostalgia. Memories of youth, memories of past loves.
    I become lost in a downpour of my own existence, my mind pouring over my body. Trees soaked, the water falling off them; that unstopable water, that molecular champion. Dihydrogen Monoxide flows over my skin and my wet clothes, which now stick closely to my body in an effort to keep from being swept up and away. My clothing hugs me. The only hug I've had in ages.
    The falling droplets form music upon my skin. With each drop a new note is formed.  A lone trumpet plays mellow notes in consecutive fashion; in the backdrop: the bright sound of a ride cymbal, muted only by the small metal rings attached to it's underside to create a constant buzz of metalic glory. The music lingers in the back of my mind. A saxophone comes in. I had not noticed it at first -- it slowly crescendoed into audibility, and added soft color to the melancholy mental music; a soft jazz. A steady walking bass pattern made it's way into the mix. A pace. A beat. Tempo.
    The sublime sounds continue to play over the rain pouring on me. I'm bathed in moisture. I make my way down a wooded path and observe the surrounding flora et fauna. Nature surrounds me and I'm awed. The green hues warm my senses and make me more alert. I look at the huddled shrubs and imagine a family of small animals crowded together to stay warm. I imagine them as Walt Disney might have -- a father, a mother, two young children, and perhaps a pet. But what were they?
    A deer comes into view. Grazing; consuming grass. I watch it, and remain as still as I could. The deer does not notice me. As it continues to eat, I think of how utterly impresive of a sight this is. The rain is coming down lightly over the deer's body, drizzling down from the trees, and making beautiful sounds upon everything it fell upon. The deer's bristly fur glistens due to the wetness upon it. The animal appears serene. It appears as calmed by the falling rain as I am. Perhaps this serenity is what motivated it to appear in the open, subject to predators; it is early in the afternoon.
   

    I'm at home and I sit. The plush couch beneath me cushions my ass, back, and I relax. Outside, birds search for their next meal, eagerly. They swoop and fly about frantically acquiring a vast multiplicity of bugs, ready for digestion. The air conditioning ignites after the mechanism gauges the temperature rising above the thermostat level. Cool air is blown about the room, and onto my skin. My nerves tingle, and my mind seems cooled as well by these waves of electrically engineered breeze. I see the birds a in new light. A poem; an expression of earth's soul. They are earth's breath. Painting their wings accross the sky and onto my retina. My pupils surely are dilated by now, as I observe this impressive symphony of color before me. The birds become the tools of the earth, and the sky is a light-blue canvas designed to record every subtle color, every vibrant hue, every miniscule detail, every grandoise artistic action. My mind is the earth's palette.
  After this display, I'm exhausted, and I make my way to my bedroom. Upon the floor are my beloved blankets, and at the head of their tumult lie my precious pillows. I slip inside their protective cave. I'm in the womb. My eyes close, and my shut-eyed face stares at the ceiling. The ceiling stares back down at me, and we are in harmony. Waves of sleep flow about me, like the rain. Rather swiftly, I find myself in that stage between sleep and wakefulness. Thoughts are rapidly projected into my speaking mind, and at the time they seem to make perfect sense. However, upon consideration an instant after this, they are nonsensical. Such are the intricacies of the slumbering brain. I drift into a sea of sleep. I drift...
  I'm up at a start, and it seems i've slept into the morrow. Fauna sings outside my home, its music surely the cause of my awakening. I look at my clock; it's later than it seems. Still morning, however, and I put my hands behind me in order to push my body upright. I push up beneath me and lift myself using my legs. The usual motion of standing from a supine position. Rather groggily, I walk to the kitchen. There is nothing of interest in the fridge. There is no coffee in the coffee pot, to my dismay. I walk out of the kitchen untriumphantly and encounter my housemate.