by Phil Wheeler
Journal: day 317
It rains every day here. Every now and then it slows to a trickle and the sun peeks through broken clouds for a few moments, but mostly it falls in great torrents of rain; constant, pounding, maddening. I listen to it, day and night, as it falls outside. The sound of it hitting the metal roof is a constant. Ting, ting, ting, it goes day after day and night after night.