Listen to the rain. Patterns and rhythms; resonances, but not a language we understand. Not raining inside; although it might be, but that would be rain of a different sort. What is it to hear the rain but never feel it? You may have spent your life with your nose pressed against the plate-glass window, unsure if you're looking in or only seeing your reflection. Or perhaps you think you're inside the glass box, suspended and waiting to be let out - assuming there's an Out after all. But then sometimes the glass like all fictions melts away into a thousand drops, falling from an endless sky.