Rain rushed down from the sky, blinding and blind, indifferent and mindless, but it held no meaning beyond that. How could it? It was just rain, descending from the sky’s massed legion of grieving clouds. And the crying wind was the breath of natural laws, born high in the mountains or out at sea. Its voice promised nothing. There was no meaning to be found in lifeless weather, in the pulsing of tides and in the wake of turning seasons. No meaning to living and dying, either. The tyrant was clothed in gold, and the future smelled of blood. It meant nothing.
