IF I WERE rain, I’d gather over the harbour and look across the water at this our room and darken its windows slowly as in an overture, and then I’d scatter down obliquely and blur the outlines of the crumpled sheets and smother the sound of the phonograph spinning in the corner; I’d pour down in such a rush of testament force as to gut out candlelight and wash away the trace of everything we did, for deceit was then our sinuous way, forgetfulness befriended us, subterfuge inhabited every gesture, no touch or smile was pure, dark light passed through us as bent as in a prism, and no one knew that we were alchemists, that we’d been granted more than our share of time taken from that same rain now called upon, imaginary, sheets of it stinging down on days and nights when everything we did was wrong.