Martes de Lluvia

Todos se quejan de la lluvia, de los atascos, de los retrasos que provoca… yo no digo nada, permanezco callada y sonrío y por unos momentos vuelvo a otros días. A aquellos en los que aprendí a amarla… Ahora ya no aparece casi nunca pero es necesaria la tristeza para sentir alegría después y que para necesitar el sol de verdad llueva antes. Es lo bueno del invierno, tardes de mantita, de introspección, de ponerse al lado del radiador. Nunca se puede decir nunca jamás …. Y mucho menos siempre.

Y por si no fuera suficiente felicidad oír el ruido de las gotas en mi paragüas esta mañana he topado con tres canciones de lluvia

M. Ward "Post-War"

The Montgolfier Brothers "Koffee Pot"

Okkervil River "In a Radio Song"

Black, black sheep boy, blue-eyed charmer, head hanging with horns from your father - oh, in a cold little mirror you were grown, by a black little wind you were blown, alone, alone, alone. Sad smile on your lips, you shake and shiver. Some animal sips where the river flows from a black little crack in a stone. To a crackle in a radio song, sing along, sing along, sing along. Warm light when your eyes fill with laughter. Some animal lies in the pasture, holes in its throat where the blood was drawn, in its mouth where the tongue was torn by your claws, your claws, your claws. I rose from a dream; we were running from every being that was hunting, but we let them get ahead of us. We let them lie in wait for us. We’re fucked, we’re fucked, we’re fucked. I rose from a dream; I had just destroyed everything with one crushing blow, and I woke up and watched it go, and I woke up and wagged my tongue. So long, so long, so