I no longer wish to reproach the sky that only knows how to rain. It falls on new shoots and bricks, tracing the marks of life across dazzling red light with exhausted hands. Single-file water stirs, turns inward, is buried alongside white doves in April’s floral cemetery. It dissolves into a saint’s tears, into nerves and blood, into the endless rain of Shanghai’s Minhang. A translucent Madeleine Elster falls, leaving a ring of melancholy spiraling behind her. Benjamin in his fish tank breathes the murky air of post-graduation, water seeping into the lungs of memory, splicing reality hard against reality. Water overflows the basin, holding back the fresh foam of beer on the floor. If América Vicuña dies in despair, charge that death to God, and throw in a camellia—the kind that should have been outside that window.