Then on your tombstone, where you only get a little bit of space to sum up your life, some wax-faced creep chisels a set of meaningless numbers instead of poetry or a secret love or the name of your favorite candy. In the end, all you get is a few words.

The rain fell like dead bullets.

Some artists are normal people who just happen to make things because we can't figure out how in the hell to communicate with people.