STORMY WEATHER

At about bedtime and after an extensive set of relatively halcyon days, a relatively quiet darkness monstrously began to be interrupted by flashes of lightning, rollings of thunder, and a more than inconsequential kind of rainfall. The protagonist of this very brief slice-of-life piece felt vastly shaken and stirred up by that sudden reassertion by Nature of her ongoing primacy. He, the same protagonist (who was more a he than a she, we shall say) began to worry about such always possible eventualities as buildings blown down by storms, roofs that leak and leak, and human bodies that are mangled and remangled utterly beyond recognition.
Meanwhile, the rains, winds -- yes, there were winds: monstrous winds -- , lightnings, and thunders continued to assault the building inside which the protagonist then was almost recumbent and that that same person fairly long (for almost half a decade) had called "home"; and the fears kept seeming to want to mount higher and higher in the protagonist's poor soul.
Yet before too long, of course -- or maybe not of course -- , the rains and all had seemed to subside into a quite stark and absolutely gentle silence. Our protagonist then perhaps felt greatly calmed and reassured, as if, after all, neither he nor anyone else ever might be compelled or ever would be compelled to go through an eternal type of torture. Perhaps, in fact, "our dear protagonist" felt a bit cheated, as if whatever splendor secretly had been part of his anguish over possible destructions suddenly had been snatched away from him and had left him in a world far too flat, far too unchallenging. Yet, he slept that night. In fact, he not only slept but had sweet dreams. In fact, all the next day, perhaps, he throve on his memories of that pain, that glory.