It was wet. But the last time had been so different. He thought he could taste it. But the admission was tough coming through, and so he stood, facing it with a nonchalant air that belittled his feelings so, and let it pass; pass the place around him like a breeze flirting with time, placing the past in a grapple of comparison that the present stood to misunderstand. And it could be surmised as a subject; a feeling or an object of one's focus for the occasion. Because it was the heaviness he breathed that hurt.