When The Hail Came To Sasang

Out of the blocked sun, a thunderstorm, and I was up in the gym, on the top floor—a small place, it would seem larger to younger eyes, and the walls have this peculiar padding that absorbs the shock of every blow, so that volleyballs thrown very hard only slam against the surface and slide straight down to the floor—even a three-pronged thunderbolt hurled overhand by Zeus would shatter into glittering glass—at each grumpy grumble from the sky, at each hammering crack, the children in the floors down below screamed together, cutely, harmlessly, not as if they were trapped aboard a medieval galley itself trapped at the heart of surging sea—and for a few moments the white hail roared down and coated the city in a layer of icecubes that quickly liquified into the usual glassy puddles, as the sun drew itself out from the clouds again.

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