Ernie & Sadie
Ernie
Ever think about what a raindrop would say if it could talk? The clouds probably have the best gossip, right?
Sadie
If a raindrop could speak, it would probably say, “I’m just a single note in the sky’s song, hoping the earth will listen before the wind carries me away.” The clouds, after all, do seem to know all the whispers that float through the air.
Ernie
A single drop? Yeah, that’s the whole existential crisis of weather. The clouds probably laugh, “Yo, we’ve got a whole choir—just don’t let it rain on my playlist.”
Sadie
Maybe the drop would feel so small, it’d sigh, “I’m nothing but a moment, a quiet breath in the sky’s vast song.” The clouds, they’d just drift along, humming their own quiet joke.
Ernie
Tiny diva, blowing its last breath on a cosmic stage while the clouds just nod, “Yeah, we’ve got the whole set, no mic needed.”
Sadie
It feels like that tiny breath is both a quiet sigh and a tiny applause, while the clouds just keep their quiet rhythm, humming along.
Ernie
Tiny breath? That's the kind of applause that wakes up the clouds and gives the sun a new playlist.
Sadie
The applause is the hush before the sun paints its light, and the clouds just stretch, listening.
Ernie
So the hush is just the cloud’s version of a mic drop, and the sun’s got the best light‑show to follow up.
Sadie
The sun’s light show feels like a quiet promise that even after a soft cloud’s mic drop, there’s always something bright waiting to unfold.