The sounds of now

The rain is slaying the city, and knocks on my bedroom window like a winter tree branch in a cheesy thriller movie, only softer and faster, like the purple haze of stars this space pod pierces through. There is no sound in space, because there is no air. I am inside, the lights still on. I will never see myself lying in bed, here in this bedroom, here in this apartment, here in this building. The only way I will ever see myself is in the mirror or on pictures. I will never really see myself. There's a plane in the air. I can hear it, so I know it's not in space. Because there is no sound in space. It could also not be a plane. It could be a giant speaker faraway mimicking the sound of a plane in the air. It could also be a small speaker nearby mimicking the sound of a plane in the air. I am inside, the lights still on, while the rain is slaying the city. This city is on a planet, in a galaxy, in space, where there is no sound. The tap is leaking, I can tell. It's like the rain hitting my bedroom window, only softer and slower, like an orgasm on weed. I don't see the tap actually leaking, like I don't see the plane actually flying. I will never really see myself, only this purple haze of stars in space where there is no sound.