It begins gently, at first, softly falling like a child’s tears. It is a sad thing, but not so unusual and wholesome in its way. And the wind lightly blows, almost tenderly caressing your face. This will not last, but it’s nice, isn’t it? The rain comes down harder now, no longer a child’s gentle weeping, and not quite an adult’s passionate cries for a lost love. It is somewhere in-between. Then the wind picks up, catching your hair, causing it to fall across your face. It speaks, in the way that wind speaks: a soft moan, nothing more yet. He is coming. Credited to [Jreinstatler ]