So, this site is about stories. OK. I'll give you a story.
He stood in the rain. Beneath the rain is too weak a statement, for the rain was not merely above him; it was beside him, and below him, and within him.
There was a goose in the pond. Legs firm, body positioned, it had tucked its head back amongst its feathers, hoping to coax out a pocket of warmth against the inclement conditions. It was still.
He stared at the goose from the banks of the pond. He knew that his mother would die. He that knew his father would die. He knew that his friends would leave him, one by one, to pursue their own lives, seperate forever. Everything they had been...for nothing. The cattails swayed in the breeze, a dark matted mass against the lighter tones of the wildgrass.
He remembered seeing a goose for the first time, when he was 4. He had stood there and stared.
The days hadn't even been around that often. He would awake, rise, go about his business, and sleep again. Again and again. He was 13. He was 17. Did it matter? Days were days.
He knew that when he was 80 years old, he would see a goose, floating idly on the lake around him. He would sit and stare.
An acoustic guitar strummed somewhere. The goose did not move. Nor did he.
He saw himself die. There he was, in his wood shack, beside the river. He had lost nearly all of his hair; he had the makings of a stubbly face, one which had not seen itself in many months. While his eyes twinkled with a hidden thought, his body was wrinkled and worn. He was lying in his bed. He couldn't move. Then he closed his eyes, and he was gone.
The rain continued down. It was not a powerful storm, but a continual one. Across the blank canvas of a sky, a crow flew, dipping above and below the gnarled oak branches. The goose had not shifted. Nor had he.
Looking up to the sky, he let time flow through his body. He hadn't felt in years.