It Will Rain

Life is a walk from home to home, a daunting one, that is. Something that occurs in mere happenstances and is taken by chances. It could begin and end within a blink of an eye, or from a fragile breath. With all its mysteries, it comes with its own boxes to opt to; whether they be beneficial or bring forth a distasteful prospect, either way, they move you despite feeling as though you've already sunk on your tear-stained carpets - leaving an evident mark of where you used to be.

Now, as you sit by the window to complain about something comparable to the infinities above you, though it has nothing to say to you, you could only ask when the rain will stop falling.

| a story of no definites, but hopefully would make sense. |