over Jimmy Gets High, i heard the soft patter of rain upon my umbrella - like the dainty footwork of a troupe of pixies, dancing across the silky expanse that was my umbrella. i looked up, and in the soft glow of the street lights, i saw a sparse curtain of raindrops - all of which were too weary, too stretched out, that they were nought but little streaks. the patter doesnt ever cease, a comforting, warm applause of sorts, or like little, encouraging pats on the back.