It started raining, not the insistent, percussive roar of a midwinter storm; there was no sudden, saw-toothed lightning tearing across the sky, no echoing roar of thunder, no morse-code messages tapped out indecipherable on weary rooftops. It was a soft summer squall, blown about between drunken, leaning tenements, carried on the gentle fingertips of an urbane, domesticated wind. Slowly he stood, genuflecting before the last, closing window into the eternal blackness as his Goddess stroked his cheek with the soft touch of the drizzling mist. Beneath him the city shifted and danced in the gloaming, distorted, like a desert-hermit’s maddening mirage. Wet, empty streets and the distant warmth, the promise of company in gas-lit windows, shining in the distance.