I stood upon the widow's watch of my manse.
There was a storm roiling up the coast, and the Atlantic's ferocity broke at the base of the cliffs my house was perched atop of. The wind had started building no more than an hour ago, and my night sensitive eyes could clearly see the rain wall moving across the southwest heading towards me.
The wind was full of chatter as air currents are likely to. It spoke of music in Columbia, murders in Bucharest, passion in India. Then a new flow came through. It was not of here, but of a land of death and pain. It spoke to me in language I could not understand, but one it seemed that my beast would enjoy speaking. It was harsh and cruel words. Even though I knew not the meaning, I could feel the hate carried by them.
The rain came and I stood in it. More to cleanse myself from the poisons that that unknown wind had carried to me than any other reason. It was fresh clean rain and I could feel the stain leeching away, but I knew that those words would return...
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