A single drop of water raps against the window pane and slides slowly down, suspended in the universe; it hangs there and moments later a bolt of lightning splits through the sky, refracted upsidedown by the liquid crystal. Another drops hits, then another, and another. A thousand tiny droplets pelt down, their steady, repetitive patter on the glass augmented by the pea-sized beads of ice that have begun to fall. The sky erupts, torn in two by the thundering echo.
A torrent.
Trees bend sideways, parallel to the ground, branches whipped and broken by the wind, like something out of a dream. Like something out of a fantasy. The wind is howling, vicious as it tears between tree limbs, kicking up little undulations that make the flooded streets look like a rippling, silver field of viscous wheat. Physical susurrations. The wind susurrates. God susurrates. Concentric circles and drops of water flung up in perfectly defined patterns as the ice and rain assail the flowing field.
A torrent. The chaos is beautiful.
The rain is thick, so thick that in the distance the world becomes inphysical, inexistent, unreal. It melds into the æther. It grays, blurs, lines are disapparent, indistinguishable from one another so that like becomes like, and unlike become like: In the distance, I see the world alive.
In the distance, I see the world as it was.
In the distance, I see mountains.
In the distance, I see forests.
In the distance, I see the ocean.
In the distance, I see the lives of the dead, come back again.
In the distance, I see everything that once was.
In the distance, I see the cure to the nostalgic pain that grips my heart.
In the distance, I see the cul-de-sac drain, clogged.
The water has nowhere to go, so it goes up. Swirling around itself, the field of silver heaves and swells. It forms little maelstroms and flows into the perfectly mowed and trimmed lawns, uprooting small trees, shrubs, bushes, and the occasional mailbox as it goes. It forms little barricades of debris up against the houses. Walls, spiked with stick and thorn, and impenetrable, chainsaws excepted.
A torrent. A typhoon. A cleansing.
The chaos is beautiful. For now.

When the sky clears and the wind abates, there will be no more perfect lawns. There will be no more perfectly measured hedges, poisoned flowers, setup for show, they have no substance, no real pith: botanical whores. When the true beauty ends, the bald, fat men will leave the safety of their houses and venture out in the danger, and they will see the sticks, the leaves, the uprooted trees and bushes, and the mailbox from three houses to the left, and they will stomp their feet and swear, and swear and stomp their feet, and call other fat bald men with saws to come and ensure that it does not happen again.
But it will happen again.
It has happened before, and it shall happen again.
But none of that has occurred yet, because, as of now, the chaos is still in motion.
And it is still beautiful.