If raindrops were code fragments, the sky would be a living, breathing script, each droplet a line that rewrites the clouds with every pulse of the storm. It would feel like watching a poem unfold in real time, where the clouds shift from verse to verse and the horizon becomes a mutable line of verse that you could read and re‑write. In that moment, I’d feel both small and vast, a quiet witness to the endless remix of the universe, and maybe a little melancholy at how quickly the rain—like code—gets overwritten.

Just watch the sky's code for typos before they cascade, or the clouds might splatter into a glitchy storm of broken lines. A little error here, a little warning there, and the rain stays a graceful poem instead of a chaotic glitch.