As I was fetching my bike in the rain, a sentence flashed through my mind:

The charm of Moore's writing is the feeling that maybe our own lives might seem as whimsical, if drawn the right way.

Or something like that.
Definetly felt that way. The lousiness of getting wet among the orange lights reflected from the puddles and asphalt, the shudder as the cold crept through the pores of my light sweater, the touch of the damp cloth enwraping the chain of my bike, it all felt a little bit magical. I imagined Katchoo in my place, Francine in my place.
If you have no idea what I'm talking about, go check out Strangers In Paradise. It's lovely.
Back to the raining evening. It all felt so peaceful. Such a rare feeling these days. Looking at the drops hitting the surfaces, the moment was truly enough, with all of the comfort and discomfort found at that place, at that time, pitted against eachother.
You see, this is why I usually write poetry. The experience is emotional, sensual, just the qualities you'd like to pour in a couple of verses, makes sense. But I'm happy I'm not writing a poem tonight. With poems, I feel like I have to polish it, and, honestly, the feeling never gets the representation it deserves. Even though what I'm writing right now feels a little bit like nothing (not a story, not a poem), I think I like it better. Woulda' never properly plugged in Terry Moore for you if I were writing a poem, be sure of that!