The rain came in an overnight gush of sound and fury, stirring me with its rumble and its early morning moments of doubt – that celestial time when the world is laid bare to expose truth like raw bone, the ache of it making it impossible to sleep easy. So then, the voice of God thundered in my ears as the fingers to the storm pried at my windows and I shivered despite the heat, waiting it out, not so perfectly safe since a part of this storm also brewed inside of me, and could not be cured with closed eyes and pretending all was well with the world when so much had been left undone and must be done again when I am officially awake – Sunday into Monday always bringing with it the old feelings from school days when I had not finished what I was told I must, and thus would face of wrath of nuns who would make me feel forsaken. At moments like this, the real satisfaction comes from knowing that I had not missed the storm, and would have felt worse had it passed me by unawares. I am always of the mind to believe it is better to see the worst as it happens than to hear about it later, and walk through the wreckage of disaster without knowing its cause. And having concluded this, and the list of things needed to be done when wakefulness returned in actuality, I fell back to sleep.