The children are asleep, my wife is asleep, and the rain is pouring down upon the metal roof above me. It would be quite lovely, if only I could listen, if only I could hear.
What I hear is a barrage of words in my brain. And the words are jealous. Their noise crowds out the sensuous rain. It scares me that I cannot quiet myself and listen. I know there was a time when I was able to. I remember being a scared boy alone in my room listening to all the sounds, wondering if the branch scratching against the siding was some misshapen thing slowly, inexorably crawling toward me. Now the fear is gone, but I can no longer hear. All I have is this uncensored, formless novel in my head reading like a bad Joyce knockoff on fetuses or guilt. It makes it hard to think sometimes.
I want to hear rain again. I want to hear the tapping tapping tapping on my metal roof.