See, I ran out of potable water in the fortress of solitude. It happens. The water that oozes from the pipes in Carpinteria isn’t fit for man or beast. It tastes like it’s been stewing in the pipe behind a elementary school drinking fountain over a nice long holiday, or maybe in a Boy Scout canteen. Heavy metal, baby. Anyway, that’s why I had to go downstairs to the garage at midnight, to fetch a gallon from my truck.
It was raining, lightly. Sprinkling. It was nice. I let it fall on my face a moment, before I scuttled back into the lair.
The Santa Barbara area is an arid coastal plain, you know. We don’t get much rain. It’s a drought every year from mid spring to early to mid fall. We almost dry up and blow away.So let it come, Lord. But not too much; the people in places that burned are worried for the sky.
The small rain down can rain.