He woke early and went to the window as always to ascertain that which awaited though he knew what awaited would forever be the same, no matter what he beheld. Once--it seemed very long ago now--things looked different. Boundless and beautiful, whatever awaited, when he thought it might be enjoined together, a perfect solidarity of two imperfect souls. No longer. He squinted against the coming day, thought maybe he discerned in a far quadrant of the firmament a gathering storm but all he could think was, let it come. No storm and no season in all their fury or ministrations could exact upon the landscape of his own heart a penance any greater. And so a storm today, sun tomorrow, no matter. The glass more mirror than window, reflecting back a vast, forsaken hinterland, still and silent save for doleful, lupine cries which rise unrequited upon a cold and ceaseless wind.