And still the rain fell. It was almost empathic in that sense, seeming to mirror the rather melancholic nature that had clung around so many of the carnival folk like a morning mist that never quite dissolved into daylight. Diana had felt it. Hell, she'd even given into it earlier, having spent a chunk of the afternoon in town. She had managed to cheer up, though, thanks to the company of one of the other new folk in town. Eventually, the young writer had made her way back to the carnival circle. Just in time for dinner, it looked like. Considering how hungry she was, it almost tasted normal.
She had eaten with little fanfare, staring at the paragraphs she had managed to write in her time in town. How could she not be inspired to write, considering the circumstances? Good thing, too. Diana needed it. Her writing was an escape and a comfort, and it focused her lens of perception. After everyone had eaten, it seemed like work was done for the day. She was shocked, impressed even, at how much had gotten accomplished since they'd arrived. Diana had retreated briefly to her tent, changing out of her camouflage (as she called it) and back into her modern clothes. The jeans were damp, but the way they fit snug on her legs was familiar. Her jacket kept out the wind and rain, and Diana found that she was finally able to truly appreciate modern conveniences as luxuries.
After changing, the young woman came to sit beneath one of the tents. Her dark brunette hair was drying off, clinging into the natural loose curls that spun like a winding corkscrew around her face. Her bag was placed next to her, and from it Diana retrieved her trusted notebook and pen. Opening it, she read the last words she had written. A metaphor about raindrops and individual lives. More on that later. Turning the page, Diana began anew.
And what business could continue as normal, if oddity is both business and the norm? A paradox as such, rarely observed, yet awe-inspiring. They travel, each set upon their own mission, and from this individuality comes a cohesive whole. Threads, multicolored and textured in singular, unique fashion, weave together to create a fascinating quilt of strange. The ritual is comforting, perhaps, and for these people the bizarre has become a standard.
Pausing, Diana looked up from the page. Her vision was rather enveloped by a shirtless man walking about. He had the kind of rough appearance that was not exactly commonplace. She found herself staring, translating details of his physicality into narrative. What a good character he could make in one of her books.