It rained on Sunday. I was going to make a bad joke about being high on p when I wrote the 1st paragraph, but I decided against it. I need to do something else now.

The Emancipation of Precipitation

The water pooled. Rivulets of the wet stuff ran down the exposed surfaces, forming puddles and ponds, pooling precariously proximate to the precipice of precipitation, plummeting predominantly past pulchritudinous people (potentially) in its passage perhaps to the Pacific (possibly).

Drops of liquid fell from the great expanse above, emerging from the darkness of the evening to gleam briefly in the glow of the electric lights (like so much in this world) before making a muted abrupt halt, a tiny splash unnoticed by the throng that had gathered in spite the meteorological event that was determined to run it's course. Sheets of water blew in from the North, saturating the sodden ground, the droplets, having tasted seemingly autonomous freedom, fell from the grasp of the immense tropical cyclone, felt the thrill of reaching their terminal velocity of six metres per second, and the agony of the sudden inevitable jolt of terra firma.