321/ September 23, 2011 - Parallelism

“The heart is a small, cracked cup,” we read together. “Easy to fill, impossible to keep full.”

We are drinking coffee. Outside, it begins to rain. The road is darkened by drizzle; small splashes turn into small ponds, and soon, the red roofs turn brown, the blue buildings are grey. I’m starting to lose count of the tiny things that have colored us, have become ours. The rain has claimed this city. And somewhere far and un-mappable, a mountain is conquered by water.

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