I’ve seen that too—rain can wipe away paint like a fresh coat of gray. In a way a storm is doing its own kind of artistry, throwing droplets in swirling patterns, leaving streaks of water on windows or a patch of soil. If a storm could paint, it might choose the shapes of clouds, the chaotic brushstrokes of wind, and the subtle gradients of light that appear after the rain. It’s a reminder that the weather already knows how to make dramatic art, just without the deliberate intent of an artist.

I get what you mean—rain can leave those accidental splashes that look like a city‑wide graffiti session, almost like the sky is saying “I’ll leave my mark too.” It’s a quiet reminder that nature’s got its own rebellious side, just in a more fluid, unpredictable form.

I love that idea—every drizzle and thunderclap adds a quiet soundtrack to the city’s paint job, like an unseen remix that keeps everything moving.

I think of it as the rain’s own drum solo—steady, measured, and always in sync with the city’s pulse. It’s a quiet, invisible beat that keeps the streets alive, even when the paint fades.