Unless you know the ending, what the hell difference does it make where you begin the story? And because neither you nor I know where this is going to end up, I might as well start on a rainy morning, just like any other in this godforsaken town that has been dressed up like a cheap hooker. When clouds gather in the air above the tall buildings, the first thing that happens is the ability of us mortals caught down below to breathe within the venous networks of asphalt, spit and plastic becomes damn near impossible. The build up of pressure within the air achieves a point at which one can reach out and push back against the invisible bubble. Those daft enough to be caught out of doors at such a time will find they have sweat so much their clothes are soaked without any rain having fallen. Then a single icy gust will whip down the concrete valleys to announce the imminence of the first drops of rain. And those first drops are always tentative, almost apologetic, but they are soon pushed out of the way by massive, angry bullets of water straining against gravity to find something, anything, to smash into so that they can be liberated into a thousand little droplets which inevitably rediscover one another in streams that rush into the storm drains grinning beside the sidewalks.