Hour after hour, the rain falls, and the eroded hollow at the base of the downspout has now grown to such a size that it emits a sound more like a rushing stream than the gentle rill it emulated a few days ago. The cascades of water veil facades and swirl into newly formed potholes in the street. Hypnotic patterns of sound fill the night, and I begin to grasp the idea of what it must be like to live with a monsoon. Unable to concentrate, I am drawn again and again to the porch from which I watch, amazed that the drowned and glistening world has not dissolved. Though I have enjoyed the rain, I anticipate the sight of sunlight tomorrow afternoon with considerable pleasure. I grow stale when not provided with sufficient variety.