Rick found himself staring through a window at the inclement weather that seemed to steal his attention from more worthwhile activities. Water came in sheets off the windows, cars staggered through the sludge, and leafs fell from the force of the wind and rain combined. Days like this did something to him; it seemed that everything making him happy and content was on the other side of the clouds above him.
    He had been reading a book a few minutes ago. The words flashed by, but he could not make any sense of it; they skittered off the page, and though he wished to grab hold of them, he could not. The entire day felt empty. Just another one to get through.
    Days. They used to be so concrete, so dependable. The sun would rise in the morning, a period of light persisted in which one would fulfill their normal routine, and the orange ball would set; upon going to sleep, the sun would rise again. Yet this staple of his life was now fully malleable, subject to whether he wanted to go forward or backwards in time. They day was his. He owned it. He could stop the rain; he could move ahead when it was sunnier, as he had no restrictions by something as simple as time.  
    The rain continued to fall. His house was not as sturdy as it used to be; it leaked near the center of the ceiling, dripping onto the wooden floor. He reached for a bucket, but stopped. Let it drip itself out. Let the day pass by and purge itself of its flaws. The next morning would be sunny, his floor dry, his mind back on track.
    Until then, however, it rained. The drops had formed a puddle; the wood would warp soon if he wasn’t careful. Sighing, he walked over to another room and picked up a roll of towels.
    Who was he, now? Where was he after everything had gone by so quickly? He was still Rick Fieldman, a down-on-his-luck man who couldn’t find a friend or job in the world. Except now he had a job, and more importantly, someone who understood him. What did that do to him? Did that make him happier when the sun rose in the morning and he had to get out of bed? Did that make him happier when a check arrived in the mail to support him? What was happiness, anyway? Simply a smile, or a longer, deeper effect? Yet all of his joy was behind the clouds, and he was stuck with a dripping ceiling, not to mention thoughts so abundant that they pooled out of his overflowing mind.
    He reached down to the floor with the towels. The world seemed to be more bland these days; everything was listless, and the arts had been forgotten in place of  form and function. He looked up- the wallpaper was fading, and bits of rust appeared on metal paneling near the ceiling. It was an old house with plenty of things to do, plenty of contracts needing to be worked out. Much of the wear was due to procrastination. Come to think of it, though, he did not mind the disrepair in some locations- no house was meant to be spotless, but instead to have its faults, just as the occupants inside did not always embody perfection.
    The puddle was as clean as it could have been. A dark stain was still present, but would dry up along with the storm. Floors had it easy. Floors had it all figured out. Not that they had much to take care of, any rate.
    Another drip fell in the very center of the spot where the stain had been. He looked at it oddly, watching the water soak into the floor.

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