It was a dark and stormy night and the rain fell around me like a meandering waterfall from some bizarre universe where events are never as they appear, where good deeds are punished rather than rejoiced and heroes are made of fools while fools of heroes. The droplets of the peculiar yet entrancing precipitation felt cold on my uncovered cheek, like a gelato scoop full of cioccolato fondente from a gelateria I once lit upon in the backstreets of Cadiz. Was it the rain or my inner tears from a prescient memory of some long and forgotten period of my existence that chilled the deep purple crevices of my being? If only the world did not swirl in an eddy of tediously repetitious currents as maddeningly circular as a fancy milled button on a dowager's downy coat. My mind whirled as I thought of management dynamics and theories of psychology plucked from a tree of knowledge long forgotten by the patch of society's briers into which I currently found myself ensnared. But the spinning splashing raindrops would soon give way to an oceangoing voyage where thorns are crowded with roses and chilly people with the company of brilliant purveyors of fantasy and sincere good will. Without this hope of escape all would be dull characterless rain and there would be no brightly colored impressionistic Monet inspired umbrella lit from the rays of sun peeking from behind, nay, seemingly pushing assunder, the blundering witless clouds that dance to the nightingale's tune.
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