Drops of rainwater create thunderstorms on the surface of the puddle, as your eyes shift from his brown and now stained classic leather shoes. Half-kneeling, he looks up from under his synthetic yellow hood, eyes grey as the weeping clouds, even as the world around him is pelted mercilessly by the sky. He thinks little of the barrage, even as thousands of mini explosions lit up his poncho. All he cared was to look up.

Slowly he stood, proud and imposing, with eyes never leaving the source of the ever-persistent deluge. His eyes are filled with the rage of the sun, but he looked on with unsurpassed gentleness. What the sky did wrong, he did not know, but he would enjoy every moment.

People streamed by around him, ignoring the apparent deviant. Such problems have become all too common, and to them he was but another hapless victim.

The dream needed another chance, and the dream got it. Perhaps, if the sun would need an eternity to surpass the dark of night and the curse of rain, he would still wait. Because the beauty of the night cannot be replaced. But as the curse holds on and options wane, it would have to disappear.

Perhaps that could be delayed…