Even in the rain, my humor is dry.

It's warm and cold in my universe, and while I can't seem to feel the humidity or taste the air, I still long for the feeling of mist on my skin and strawberry ice cream on my tongue. I hear crickets but see dragonflies, whose wingbeats have no tempo. When I talk, I have no long strands of hair to twirl in my fingers, and so I fidget with the tangible auras leaking in from outside. The people outside are muttering to themselves, panicked and in a hurry. I look at my watch, and run out the door, stepping on a dragonfly on my way.