It rained today while I was walking to work.
I was wet from the cold winter rain, smiling back at strangers... with Neruda swimming dreamily inside the puddle in my brains... making me, like he always does, recite mentally my favourite lines from The Book of Questions:
Tell me, is the rose naked
or is that her only dress?
Why do trees conceal
the splendour of their roots?
Is there anything in the world sadder
than a train standing in the rain?
And for the thousandth time in my life I wondered if there is indeed anything sadder than the sight of a train standing in the rain? Yes, may be some... but not many that I can think of.