A place without a storm

"A PLACE WITHOUT A STORM"

There was, no doubt, less rain somewhere, a place without a storm; it
was however not here. To the west were hills. Mountains really, but
they were overshadowed by the gargantuan mounds of blue earth striking
up from the east. Unlike the hills of the west, nothing grew on the
harsh blue mountains of the east. They were rocky and craggy faced. A
distinctive blue hue was strewn through the rubble of the eastern
mountains and there were no trees or shrubs or life of any kind.

The rain existed like layers of air itself, floating everywhere. Rain
fell and soaked miles and miles of trees. Coniferous trees bristled
with wet pines dripping onto dirty green brown patches of forest floor.
Each step moved into a new puddle or sloshed through the same one. The
ground alternatively modeled itself after mud and then after dirt. The
wind beat down, the rain pierced the world, and the ground sank and
bubbled.

I traveled through this storm till nothing but the end mattered.