Cityscape: Paris, the Relief of the Clouds

I felt vindicated, like a triumph of the will, an angel laying its hand on my shoulder, a bird descending from the flames of hell, carried by the span of its spread wings, floating in full motion, with the sun brightly burning above, penetrating the clouds below my body, until I finally disappear into the fog, like an airplane approaching, the engines gone, the wings gone, a bullet in a void, until small patches of isolated land emerge like a vapor from the boiling ground, engulfed by the glory of the clouds, drifting mountains, marble monuments of air, glorious sky. The irregular architecture of the sky reflects the random lines in the city landscape, that it passes, but how liberating to have one's pen drift wildly by the gravity of passing objects, along and off the grid, only apparently restricted to the contours of the canvas, but in reality expanding in every direction. I feel the pressure of the azure sky without limitation endlessly upon me, I am just a subject to it, what is easier to drown in than the open heaven with its absence of cadres, this oppressive space, with its rule of emptiness, only void, and eventually boredom. So picture my delight, on seeing these gray clouds, filled with mass and matter, being dragged along by the wind, the virtuous rain drizzling like drops of champaign released from the bottle, spraying around gloriously, luxuriously, the sour sweet frizzle, and to walk down the Rue de Ménilmontant, and slowly get drenched by the rain, to feel the chill of the wind drench my thirst, the thirst for an oasis to thinking man, why is everyone covering themselves under their sadly colored umbrellas, huddled like anxious cows mooing under the awning of a Tandoori restaurant, afraid of a bit of rain, of the relief of the clouds.