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2. New York, 1987It rained every day. It hadn't for some time, she said, until I entered the city, a rain man. . . . At the end of the history of rain we are looking at your Sunday Morning, the driest site in town, without the luxury of late coffee. Precious and dull, it's still better than Sunday afternoons when I used to think I might as well die, musing on the next, that is, last millennium and letting Satie's slow Gnossienne premeate my spine. I certainly admire the way the barber pole is slightly tilted as if it has to be, and on the left a hydrant that looks like a raccoon. Then I sometimes wonder why the four nighthawks could have been seen on the far right.