torrential ovenbird The subconscious is a downpour refusing to relent. A decrepit air conditioner lies on its side, leaking from the cracked basin at its heart. I wrench the plastic hull open like I’m feasting on mussels, free the seeping vessel from a rain forest of tubes and wires, and haul all that murky liquid into a sunny afternoon where it becomes a drink for parched flowers. Outside I find I am soaked through. Water is pouring off of me like I’m caught in a monsoon, but there isn’t a cloud for miles. Rain gets in my eyes. My clothes are so sodden they are merging with my skin. Torrents flow through my hair and pool on the ground. “What do you want from me?” I ask the sky, but get no answer. I stand dripping and blind wondering how much water it takes to be washed clean. 250610 what's it to you? who go blather from