Rain down your waiting world

Light filters through opaque cloud blankets, reflected in the rear view mirror tree's vivid green, street line's yellow, and black tarmac pop, saturated up to my irises At one point in time a pot farm on the pottery teacher's property would have shocked me. My mother is disgusted, other teachers angry, and I'm oddly detached. It's no big deal, he just got caught, he wasn't hurting anybody, and when will he come back. but it came out of nowhere, and it shakes. I want to die dreaming, but I have no dreams. My organs must be rotting. You're like a paper-shredder to my patience. 63 days