this ain't livin': 4:55

It’s always raining when I go to the doctor’s office of my imagination, so everything is slightly damp and sticky and the room smells like wet weather and wool. Dripping umbrellas are jammed in a bucket by the door and the window is streaked with drops of moisture that slowly and steadily trail down to the sill before vanishing from view. The gutters are spitting and overflowing around the foundations because no one’s bothered to clean them in quite some time, and the parking lot is awash with a swirl of water and garbage blown in by the wind.