A mind grows weary of the rain’s falling assault, tho the sky never tires of its gray churn, and a mind starts to wonder– what is it under this spray-vandal’s heaven, that is real? Is any of this– sincerity, or is falsity the only sincerity which has ever been? Is there anyone– truthful, under this murky sky? Is there anyone smaller than themselves, would anyone dare become small enough to allow another to be, to just– be? Will the rain bring us flowers, lovers, will it gift us, with simplicity?