one of life's forgotten pleasures: warm summer rain. there is nothing quite as exhilarating, quite as sensually pleasing to me, as cycling at full speed through the puddles, under a torrential waterfall, bare-headed and bare-footed, singing at the top of my lungs, with the raindrops jumping off my face, my soggy water-filled skirt holding on to my inner thighs with the insistence of a lover's hands, and the water flying off the pavement, washing my feet in its surprising warmth. oh, and then there is the smell...
why, why is summer rain so incredibly good? does anybody know? Brassens thinks he does...
(for those who need a translation, see here.)
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