At a Red Light on a Rainy Afternoon

Sometimes on rainy days I take a drive. No music, no passengers. I let the legions of wet sheets speak on my windshield, tapping and pitterpattering in a tongue so simple and universal that everyone understands it. When I come to a red light, I turn off the wipers, and then I'm able to look at the world in a wondrously wet way. Manna mists down, drips into rivulets and splats, swirls the world in front of me. Heaven's miserable runoff forms a mirage before my eyes like the horizon in the desert, except this time my perception is only muddled, not deceived. The edges of buildings refract their sharp lines; the serpentine roads smear into quivering concrete rivers; the colors of a gloomy and civilized day all melt together in a beautifully unfocused and psychedelic way. It's moments like these at crowded intersections when I, alone in my commute, am finally able to see things without interference. The window bathed by rain cleanses my rigid view, and all things forget their territorial contrast.
When the light clicks green, and I'm forced to proceed safely with unobstructed line of sight, I try to not forget how perfectly together everything is when it's covered in water