Patience

A grub.  He was a grub.  Rather, a thinking grub.  The rain stroked a clock of magical numbers.  It chimed 4:50 and he was not hungry.  It aimed to take it.  He took it.  The running of a metaphorical mind was indeterminate, reticent and malignant.  He had a name.  He had a nice life.  It it was 4:52 and he was not hungry.  He was a grub.  It was the rain that remained.  Shimmering lights of lime and green beckoned black.  Black and out and hues of red and gold:  stigmatized.