And from under the bridge, the fair skinned boy walked, stepping out into the warm summer rain. A boy that had been blanketed his whole life was now soaked in the loud, warm summer rain. He had never thought to do such a thing, for he hated the thought of such a cold and, in his mind, unpleasant feeling of water hitting his skin and wetting his hair. But now he stood in the loud, warm, and pelting summer rain. The ground was muddy and surprised his feet with rocks. The sky was dark and hid the afternoon sun. The freeway was still, and wouldn’t be heard over the loud, warm, pelting summer rain anyways. It was a picture painted for any gloomy movie. It was a scene set for any tragic play. It was a chapter begun for any depressed writer. It was pathetic fallacy at its peak. But the fair skinned boy with the long hair felt only tranquility in the loud, warm, pelting summer rain. It massaged his body and soul. It cleared his mind. It was a fleeting moment in time where he, for however long he stood there, unknowingly found himself between all of the sorrows he had faced, and all off the sorrows he would soon bare. There was no pain. There was no meaning. There was no materials, and there was no silly cliché. There was only the ecstasy of the moment, and the loud, warm, pelting summer rain.