my 42.

another sign I have to ignore when I haven't seen the stars in nights
and the prophets of doom are getting more restless every day;
and that part where the rain is joy sublime
falls during the most opportune time when I'm boxed inside concrete, steel and glass.
The paranoia sometimes really feels old
and equally compares to what I feel when I see the rain;
those personal reverse Back to the Future episodes.
And by the time the clouds drift into other shapes,
I have agreed with Randall Munroe again
that wanting something doesn't make it real,
even if you manage to fool yourself somehow.
The resulting coldness being the only consolation as the rain fades away.

Then I remember Fox Mulder's poster in his basement office and know that I do.
And so, I go on continue wanting anyway.