It’s a warm and rainy night and the smell of wood burning permeates the downfall. I stand on the second floor porch and look out across the street to the campus beyond; as a woolgatherer, my mind conjures stories, so many stories, and I think to myself, maybe it’s this Scranton soundtrack that is imbuing me with all this inspiration. Here comes the rain again. It rains a lot here in Scranton in the fall of 1984. And that suits me just fine. It clears off the campus thoroughfares and allows me to walk aimlessly, alone. I’m aware of my youth and my secret desperation. I’m aware of how lonely and alone I am, and I wonder what it’s like to have a lover to walk with and talk with as Annie Lennox requests in the chorus of her Eurythmics’ song Here Comes the Rain Again. I’m about to walk along the winding path that leads through the main commons. No one is out tonight, no one but me, walking quietly in the drumming, steady rain. Here it comes again.
From the historical writing archive. Original date: November 11, 2018. Recovered from local source material; editorial review is still in progress.
