It raises an important question relating to the conduct of trials and, because of its importance, what I am about to say may undergo some substantial editing when I see what I have said, but my decision will not be different.
McEachern CJBC, Rahmatian v. HFH Video Biz Inc. BC 1991

Rain brings its own problems. Scratched windows and bent wipers make driving a blur. The road is always doubled, wet above and wet reflection below. Streetlights and tail-lights smear. Sudden dark figures menacing their vulnerability. I drive on faith. I drive with a hunch back and squinted eyes, looking for an angle of sure vision, past the high whine wiper blades. It’s always dark and it’s always wet. I’m always in leather shoes and a wool coat, everything is always being ruined, I always wear long jeans, they’re always soaked. I don’t understand why I can’t dress for the weather. I just can’t believe in inevitability.

I almost went mad this summer in Vancouver because it was sunny for two months straight. Every day I would wake up to the sun and every day I would drive to work in the bright, bright hot sun and every day I would rage at the traffic and the heat and the glare.

Calgary is much colder when it’s cold and much hotter when it’s hot and much windier and horrible in so many ways, but at least it’s unpredictable. In Calgary a hot summer is a two-week stretch, then a snowstorm. A bad winter is ten days of snow then five days of spring. I’m beginning to understand how much I’ve internalized these cycles of change. I need days that start off warm enough for t-shirts and end at 20 below. I need to see the change in the sky and smell it on the air and feel the pressure of the weather in my head.

Here the sky and the ocean are the same, we’re sandwiched, we’re sponged, the city is a lung, we’re all just breathing.

I’m appalled at how much I think about the weather.

Try to belie the imagination. Try to imagine a wrinkle, a bruise, a point of convergence.

Eliminate all memory. Proliferate scathing.
Engender sound.

Sound as though touched. Rake nerve for encumbrance. Rail against and in favour and inconsistent strain.

Last, at long last, as the long last light fades, a curtain raised, a half-mast circumstance.

Indeed the abstract flails and whimpers. Indeed the words are pocked.

To get at turn away. To touch here and touch there so slowly a vein awakes. In the long light somber and the glare light brutal, in the hazing day, tactile nuance forms a soft fog.

A soft fog is a fidgety slip into the limber touch, the tongue lisping through the typing.
Here the silence sounds blinking a grasp in tumult, slowly lapping so lapse.