Why should I face that piercing pain for one slim chance that men call love? Why stand out in the winter rain again, to hope that time might prove my cynicism to be wrong, and someone share the gift of fire? The rain has chilled me far too long; my fingers numb; my body tires of bracing against stinging wind that ghost-like moans through empty streets and pulls the chiller air behind to turn the rain to bitter sleet. It's wiser not to hope for more. Best to go in, and shut the door.