I found this story on a site, written by a high-schooler.  It has a great feeling of sadness that I enjoy evertime I read it.  Written by Mike Farmer.

 

Have you ever seen stale marshmellows in the rain?

HOUSTON, TEXAS: I walked out of my flat into a wet Houston midnight;
I felt the desert in my feet. At thirty paces and three I met a
fireant, who spoke to me through my walkman.
    "Where are you going?" he whispered.
    "To see the world," I said softly, "and talk to the Rainbow."
    "What will she tell us?" asked the fireant.
    "The meaning of life, and the destiny of planet Earth."
    "How long will it take?" asked the fireant.
    "How long do you have?" we were young; we left the Houston
desert.

MT. FUJI, JAPAN: We sat eating smoked salmon with a wise hermit in
the Japanese highlands.
    "How is it that you talk with a fireant?" asked the hermit.
    "He sends radio signals over my walkman," I said.
    "You must truly be wise then," the hermit bowed low.
    "Relative to what?" I asked, but he was gone. We found in his
teapot a tome of wisdom.
    "We have traveled the world in search of the Rainbow, but she has
eluded us; where may we find her?" We scribbled across its yellowed
pages.
    "It is at your feet," the words were old and faded.
    "Where are our feet?" we wrote.
    "On the horizon, beyond the sea."
    And so we left, the ant and I, through Burma and Thailand, and
the barrier Alps. In an African rainforest we burned the tome of
wisdom, and over it toasted pineapples and pears and so absorbed its
words. And we were full and rested.

ROUTE 66, NEW MEXICO: We stopped at a road side pool hall;
the ant was tired. "A poison is upon me," he said.
    "What is the nature of the poison?" I asked.
    "It is pink, and the softest shade of orange, and yellow, and a
frosty lime green, and it has come for me; I cannot go on."
    "But what of the Rainbow?" I stammered.
    "I have found it," said the little fireant, my friend. But we
spoke no more. I wept in the silence.

    I recall a grey rain that shook the Earth with its gentle power.
It blew away the rest of my hair and polished my threadbare scalp. I
grew old, and the ant grew pink, and yellow, and the softest shade of
orange, and a frosty lime green. It was beautiful and terrifying at
the same instant, and together we learned of death and dying, and so
learned of life and living, and I was glad.

HOUSTON, TEXAS: I found myself at my flat in the desert, and it was
wet and rotten and had grown as elderly as I had. Nothing but the
tired foundation was left, excepting one lone plank on the stony
floor, and I lay down upon it, and it was soft and moist, and I was
home. I recall a silver rain that purred in the mudwashed valleys of
the land I had been born in and had made to be home, and through a
searing crack in the black of sky arced a magnificent rainbow that
laid itself at my withered feet, shining on my dirty toenails.
    "What is it you want, Rainbow; I have grown weary of you."
    "What is the meaning of life, old man?" she asked.
    "Have you ever seen stale marshmellows in the rain?" I asked.
"They melt into wonderful little pods of pink, and yellow, and a
frosty lime green, and the softest shade of orange."
    "What is the destiny of planet Earth?" she asked.
    "Have you ever seen a fireant die in the desert of an Interstate
highway?" I asked, "It is yellow, the softest shade of orange, a
frosty lime green, and pink. It is terrifying and beautiful at the
same instant, that is the key."
    "Then you must truly be wise," she said.
    "Relative to what," I laughed. And together we walked down Route
66, following a searing crack in the black of sky, and I carried my
home on my back.
    And there, on the horizon, beyond the sea, was my little friend
the fireant, sitting by a fire that sparked from the tome of wisdom,
and the smoke was a frosty green, and pink, and the softest shade of
orange, and yellow. And we made tea, and smoked salmon, and toasted
pineapples and pears, and melted marshmellows into little pods, and it
was raining.
    We played eight ball for pennies, and sent signals to each other
through our antennae, and our laughter was the color of rainbows,
shining through the silver rain of our tears. And we were young, and
home, and glad.