“They sicken of the calm, who know the storm”

There was a storm last night. A cataclysm in the skys. The wind, howling like some sentient wild thing, clawed and ravaged the buildings, raced down the avenues, biting through everything in its path. Nightmarish clouds ragged and terrible were driven across the pregnant heavens weeping torrents of petulant tears, soaking the deserted city yet failing to wash away it's sins. 

With a mouthful of rain, clouds in my eyes and the desolation of the wind-swept heavens in my heart I stand high above the city fighting the storm or surrendering to it --not quite sure which--the city lights whirling and spinning round me, the vastness of the night closing in on me. I feel air rushing past me and I'm falling, flying, spun off my axis washed by rain and scoured by wind hoping, wishing, wanting to feel clean and whole again but suspecting that like the city I have come too far to ever regain my innocence completely.