“At the Place of Rains the one-who-is-looking-for-whom-he-loves arrives, it is a divided place, for it depends on how you view the rain how this city will seem to you. It is the same place, it is the same rain, but one part of the city is a place of sorrow; heavy, tear-laden, overcast, dull. It seems as if there is no bright thing. There is only a constant sound that does not separate night from day, nor hour from hour. It is hard to tell from the light that falls through the window just what part of the day is happening outside. The morning is as gray as the afternoon, the afternoon is as dim as the evening, the evening is as dark as the night. Neither sun nor moon are observed, nor are the stars seen, for this place lies under the domain of clouds, and they dominate everything. They accumulate in great numbers, so much so that the multitudes of clouds are seamless and appear as one continuous, uninterrupted sky. Each individual cloudshape lies undistinguished, for everything is lost in the commingling. It is like an atlas of nowhere, this sky. A map of lost places, over which there is much weeping.
On the other side of the same city there is a great beauty, and it is found in the sound of the rain as it sings on the rooftops and dances its way joyfully through the streets until it meets itself, and then falls apart, each of its hearts touching the ground and exploding with excitement. It is a harmony unlike any other, yet it is heard over and over again. Sometimes it is like an orchestra whose minims and quavers, whose semi-quavers fall from the sky. Sometimes it is like the tango rejoicing in its own steps. Sometimes it is like a slow sea that has come to tell you nothing, and comes again and tells you nothing, and tells you nothing at all. But there is a great beauty in each drop that falls, for each one shines like the eyes of a woman in love, and they sparkle.”