There's a deluge outside my apartment's window. My cat and I both are enjoying it.

I've always liked a nice rain, and today's is particularly heavy. I can tell by the way it washes off the nearest streetlamp, flooding the cap at the light's top which was designed to withstand this much a torrent, but none more. I suppose the cat and I are easily captivated by the mundane in the same way.

For once in a while I have a fairly clear path ahead of me, but the paralysis of choice still grips me at times. Lately it has been when I get in the shower. No one is around to tell me not to use all the water, and the water bill is flat, so I allow myself to waste the necessary water required to shake off some sort of locked-up feeling I get from a lack of ruminating about things. Though my use of water is wasteful, I'd consider this to be more of a vice, the ruminating. It's a good thing I don't have a lazy-boy chair or something like that from ikea, because I'd probably sit in it too much doing just that.

Anyways, I like the rain. I keep having the faintest whisper of motivation to write a poem or a short story or something. Maybe if I can come up with something that's not whole-cloth derivative of a greater artist, not in the prose of or on the intellectual level of a college freshman, I'll consider committing it to writing.