A private notation, after a prompt
Lightning, you say? Well, I'd rather not say, thank you. You see, I'm not one to gossip about the weather, unless I'm certain it intends to listen, and the rumours are never traced back to me.
But to speak so confidently about the weather? To stare into the eye of the tempest and ask it when the ‘real’ tempest expects to join us.
“Sir, I must say your lack of tempestuosity disappoints me in a way no storm ever has before. I’ve felt stronger gusts from the last breaths of dying men. I wouldn’t trust you to whip up a smoothie.”
If you want to talk tempests, tropical showers, and thunderstorms, or you’re keen on sinking barometers and sinking ships — I suggest you take up with Joseph Conrad.
I tend to veer away from meteorological dribble—
I avoid what lurks in the fog.
I won’t lend further assistance to the fog-lurkers and their unceasing pursuit of becoming qualified purse snatchers.
