The Rain Hall

She stands there naked amid the torrential downpour unleashed from a sprawling maze of hot copper pipework no more than a few feet overhead. It is here she spends an overwhelming percentage of her time in these recent weeks. This room is a flood, in every way It is a deluge of sensory overload and deprivation of light and distinction of sound. A grand open space conflicted by the suffocating blackness and cacophony where millions of heavy beads coalesce into a blanketing river beneath a steaming atmosphere. She spends hours at a time pacing back and forth, head down with the water forming a veil as it flows off of the hair swept behind her ears. Wading through with long steps dragging her toes along the cement flooring and sloshing up gallons of water she wanders. She is not lost however, not in space, nor in mind. She does not come here to contemplate, reflect. This room is a step into nothingness, the bliss of nothingness.