In the deep reaches of night, she sits and soaks in the desperate moonlight. A storm rumbles overhead as facts and opinions battle for the truth, a truth, the truth about what could be, should be, can be. She looks up. A single droplet of water lands perfectly square in the middle of her forehead. No way, she thinks to herself. An opinion picks itself up after a fact punches a hole clean through it. Crack. Another opinion takes a jab, a fact gets blown back. Thick, rage-fueled clouds cover the light of the night’s moon, the flash of the matter of the facts. Two more droplets of water descend, one falling onto the tops of each of her shoulders. She examines one and then the other. The one on the right feels a sleight caused by shame. The left is bereft of a loss due to pain. The world feels flat and small, she complains.
Another crack, another pop, the warring sides refuse to surrender. With each new blow, an opinion gets reabsorbed, and as each new fact takes a hit, retreat is ordered to strategize. When the two worlds collide, droplets fall continuously from the skies. She reaches out a hand to collect a small sample, but by the time her hands amass enough to signify significance, the droplets abandon her. After the third attempt, she gives up the prospect. Drenched now in the aftermath of a night full of the perspiration perspired for the fight over truth, she hopes, forever, for morning.