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01. PIT-A-PAT.
. . . .
GREY clouds overshadowed the city. Once again, the raindrops would collide against the rough ground with a soft tap at first ― drizzle ― and pouring harshly, evolving to a downpour.
Pit-a-pat.
The droplets would patter against the window, dancing above the rooftop, entering people's ears in a dulcet, melodious tone.
And once again, the rain reminded him how he was condemned to remain in a ring of evil ― life, repeating the same cycle that was only a copy-paste of yesterday, the day before that, and so on.
A fraction of light seeped in through a small gap of his curtain, lighting his bedroom, revealing the scarce of furniture inside. The bereft of color was really outstanding. His so called home seemed so crude and lonely, but he had no intentions of making it better nor eyecatchy either.
Because he knew and completely aware, that everything was temporary.
During rainy sundays like this one, he would stay in his bed, listening to some melancholic songs while hugging his pillows, watching the rain falling as the pethricor would be emanated from the grasses.
He knew even the solace he felt right now was temporary, his happiness was short-lived, and eventually everything would change once again just like how it supposed to be, just like what he'd have to witness.
