Slate did not hurry through the rain, rain didn’t bother him, it was the rain that had made him decide to go for a walk (even if he was supposed to be in history class). Slate’s feet found the black footpath, his eyes roved the street. The lights of shops and offices were blurred by the downpour, puddles littered the footpath, the few bare tree’s drooped as if life was to heavy for them. Everything was reflected in the layer of water on the ground, and Slate looked down at a faint impression of himself for a moment, then looked up at the sky, a blank canvas from where the rain fell. Few other people braved coming outside, hiding under bright umbrellas, and no one noticed Slate. He imagined himself blurring into the scene, like it was a watercolour, and that pleased him because if he was in a watercolour he wouldn’t have to go home.