There was a rhythm to it, if you decelerated yourself enough. One heartbeat every hour and the rain fell melodiously on the roof of my car. That was how I knew this was not natural rain, but something more sinister, or more divine. Maybe it shifted between day and night, but the rain never stopped. There was no point in distinction. An oak a hundred feet away had an aura made of rain and streetlight. I stepped out onto the asphalt, it took a thousand years. I walked toward the oak, toward the drumming, strumming, humming phosphorescence in the distance.