Raindrops fall on my umbrella and skid down onto my hood.

If it's raining heavy, the drops make their way to my forehead and tickle my eyebrows.

I'm standing in a puddle, typhoon on the horizon, waiting for a train and dreaming about the near future as music shoots through my headphones and into my skull: November in Kyoto with Hisayo, Numa and Reiko. Dreaming, dreaming.

Days like today give me a place to hide, to drop below the surface and swim in my own mind, alone on a crowded train, hood down, head down, dreaming. No exchange students speaking at escalated volume, proud tongues protruding sharply. No annoyances. No nothing, just rain and dreams.

Anticipation.

In November the rain will disappear and I will board a shinkansen with three friends.

Three Japanese friends.

Get me out of this dorm and into the future: speeding to the East, to Osaka and the unknown, with three girls who won't let me speak English. A dream, a dream, a dream. Five days of freedom from the west, five days with a clear head.

Exit from this place and its incessant static is more than a spatial transition, it is removal to a quite, clear place where one can see for miles. Get me away from the exchange students, the know-it-alls and the loud-mouths. Isolate me. Bury me.

Remove their vocal chords.

Remove my ears.

Get me to the future.

To descend from these vague, grainy rain clouds for a moment: in November, Osaka and Kyoto will be my temporal home, a Japanese inn the spot where I will lay my head, next to Reiko, Numa and Hisayo, though the room will be our last stop each evening, the end of overflowing days.

Back to the sky, raindrops falling up.

Only talk when you can't hear me.

Can't wake up until I'm sleeping.