It tends to rain my studio apartment. I own an umbrella, but my closet’s door has rusted into what resembles the car my dad gave to me on my sixteenth birthday. Some days, it’s harder to breath than others. And on other days, I forget that it’s raining at all. I think that I stopped the rain, or at least that I can’t get more wet. A couple times, I’ve left my studio apartment. I leave for a day or two, But the outside world has too much possibility for me to believe I belong in it. So I retreat back to my studio apartment