"Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. Let the rain sing you a lullaby." —

Strong. The use of rain as a natural purifier provides a vivid, easily relatable metaphor.

Consider the chalk artist on a summer boardwalk. She spends an hour crafting a sweeping quote from Rumi about “the wound is the place where the light enters you.” Tourists pause, photograph, nod sagely. Then the tide breathes in, or an afternoon thunderstorm rolls across the ocean, and within minutes, the words run in pastel rivers toward the gutter. The sentiment remains in memory and pixels, but the physical artifact is gone. Was it wasted effort? Or was it, instead, a perfect haiku of impermanence?

We often dread the downpour. We run for cover, we curse the gray skies, and we wish for the sun. But we forget that nature has a specific, brutal kind of mercy: