Rain, in the courtyard where I watch it fall, comes down at very different speeds. At the center it is a sheer uneven curtain (or net), an implacable but relatively slow descent of fairly light drops, an endless precipitation without vigor, a concentrated fraction of the total meteor. Not far from the walls from the right and left, heavier individuated drops fall more noisily. Here they seem the size of wheat kernels, there large as peas, elsewhere big as marbles. Along the window sills and mouldings the rain streaks horizontally, while on the underside of these obstacles it hangs suspended like lozenges. It ripples along, thinly coating the entire surface of a little zinc roof beneath my glance, moiréed with the various currents caused by the imperceptible rises and falls of the covering. From the nearby gutter, where it flows with the effort of a shallow brook poorly sloped, it plummets sharply to the ground in a perfectly vertical, thickly corded trickle where it shatters and rebounds like glistening icicles.
Each of its forms has a particular speed, accompanied by a particular sound. All of it runs with the intensity of a complex mechanism, as precise as it is unpredictable, like clockwork whose mainspring is the weight of a given mass of precipitating vapor.
The pealing of the vertical jets on the ground, the gurgling of the gutters, in tiny gong strokes, multiply and resound together in a concert neither monotonous nor unsubtle.
When the mainspring has unwound, some wheels go on turning for a while more and more slowly, until the whole machinery stops. Should the sun then reappear, everything is soon effaced; the glimmering mechanism evaporates: it has rained.
-Frances Ponge, Rain (translated by Beth Brombert, 1972)
A medium is an in-between in which you go from one place to another, but also the material of that in-betweeness.
-Charles Bernstein, The Art of Immemorability