Typhoons cycle through. It has been night for days now. Nobody comes around. No one is in sight. Just the memory of thirsty summers, of entire seasons spent in the damp of stagnant creekbeds. Everything was on fire then, back when crisis was a popsicle---a star thistle.
But in the heart of a monsoon, nothing moves. Everything grows still. And like magpies mock the strays, silhouettes of solitude darken every doorway.