Not even the rain roars with such temper, bareback aboard amenable air. Who gave it permission to speak like that? So curt, so temperamental. It wasn’t always like that. Not even the rain employs short hand when cooking matters of the heart, though it was usually always like that. I wondered if this frost – newly announced, slowly creeping – could stop loving so swiftly. Yes. I wondered if its rising smile could scupper the reality of this tradition of tragedy. No. It’s love: its end, its fashion. [Scare.]