Another cloud had just died. It just never made sense to me. I always thought clouds were incapable of dying. In witnessing the death of a cloud, everything scientific is immediately contradicted. For the thirty-seven seconds it takes a cloud to die, all rules of physics and reality cease to exist. In the seventh grade, I was told that clouds were actually just a bunch of tiny water droplets tightly packed together. Turns out Mrs. Grownd was wrong after all.

At first, the random death of clouds didn't bother me due to the overabundance of other clouds in the sky. I do have to admit that my first cloud death was horrific. It happened just over two years ago, during my stay in Japan. I was leisurely pacing, back and forth, from vending machine to kiosk, in search of something truly bizarre. I was secretly hoping to get mugged but that didn't happen because Japanese people are extremely affable.

Oblivious to my surroundings, I was casually strolling down a pavement made of ceramic tiles when I heard it; the distinctive sound of a deflating balloon. The sound was loud enough to scare the Japanese birds. At first, the shriek was deceptively similar to that of Godzilla's, except a little more high-pitched. Readying myself for anything, I quickly tilted my head back and squinted up at the sky. My eyes began to water. Take some raw hamburger, stuff it inside a lamb-skin condom and grease the outside with some vegetable oil, then squeeze it; that's what a cloud feels like.

It was like watching a giant hot-air balloon slowly swooning to the ground, just with a bit more shrieking and specks of blood flying everywhere. I failed to mention that clouds do bleed. Imagine a Jackson Pollack painting, except the paint is blood and the canvas is the world. To make myself feel better, I just pretend its ketchup

Some clouds accidentally get their parts snagged on the pointy ends of tall sky-scrapers. Others unknowingly bump into other clouds. Clouds are blind. The scientists now tell us that the average life span of a cloud is roughly seventeen hours. No insurance companies will cover individuals involved in cloud-deaths. It must happen too often. Oddly enough, there have been occasional sightings involving cloud births. Nothing about birth is pretty. Twenty years ago, people complained about birds getting their cars dirty. Today, people complain about clouds spilling their reproductive juices on everything. It isn't clean. Imagine a regular birth; a cloud birth isn't too different. The only difference is that it's in the sky, and the messy stuff gets everywhere.

Two weeks ago, Japan received a letter from Jesus. Jesus said he was going to fix the problem. Jesus never fixed any of my problems.