Five tiny scenes make up this sequence, and none of them tries to explain itself. In the first, the speaker watches raindrops on a bus window and wonders why some cling while others rush down. It's a small, idle question, but it hints at how unpredictable things can be. The second moment is physical and a little dreamy: a nearsighted person in a library senses rain before seeing it, just a shiver in the air.
The last three turn more personal. The third asks whether we ever stop to count the "short messages" written on our clothes, which could mean slogans, logos, or the ways we signal who we are. Then comes a sharper note of hurt and humor: after twenty years, someone is unfriended over a disagreement about David Bowie. The final image, a purple air mattress outside Portland and a person too tired to switch off the lights, feels worn out but oddly tender.
Overall, the mood is wry, observant and a bit lonely, finding meaning in ordinary things.