It starts to drizzle. Little drops of madness. The gentle pitter-patter of wanting. The breeze, content to play a bit-part thus far, fans the fires. His heart skips a beat, but the music matters little. The rhythm is altogether different, it comes from the drumming of impending doom. The beautiful, mesmerising kind of inevitability. This is the precarious yet terribly easy task of letting go. He doesn't resist, and realises he probably never meant to. This giving in, this delicious craziness, this thrill of succumbing... it feels alive.

And he likes feeling life thus.

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