GRRowl

S'right. I stole these excellent phrases from an elequent and direct witch known as Granny Weatherwax, one of Terry Pratchett's fantastic Discworld characters. She sometimes wills her mind to control an animal, like an eagle, to explore far away places. During this absence from her own body, she appears to be lifeless. From dramatic experience, Granny has learned that if you don't want to wake up six feet under, some sort of message to the world about your condition or whereabouts is a good idea. She therefore made a sign to wear, reading: «I aten't dead». Granny is obviously no stickler for spelling, and doesn't waste time explain

There's no plan. No great big scheme. Just voices. Briefly heard, then gone. Instant voices. Listen.

A speck of dirt shifts uneasily – under the first bashful drops. Exquisitely falling inbetween beats, out of flow with the wind and the noise from the streets. The conductor raises his cane to the clouds, and upon his "allegro", the rain finds rhythm. Increasing in speed and in power, a careful drizzle grows to a shower. As clouds darken and the wind turns to gale, the rain grows to storm and the drops turn to hail. Crushing and shattering onto the ground, hammering punches – pound and pound. Like a tempest symphony, a monsoon of strings, a thunderous percussion strikes. And in tin roof rhythm, hailstones dance - dance like a hamm