The pattering pelts now hitting my window remind me of long rainy days as a teenager getting lost in mammoth books that nobody else I knew read. I never cared much for the rain in San Francisco. That city was more the natural domain of fog and inconsistent sunshine trickling through ever-shifting clouds. But on the East Coast, rain, thunder, and lightning makes as much sense as it did during those rare days in Sacramento. The five boroughs collectively represent a milieu designed for such weather. That it comes crashing down with such Hollywood gusto during both the summer thunderstorms and the autumn list from the heat is a tribute to its beauty and its fortitude. Alas, this rainy day romanticism comes at a great cost. I am now contending with the worst ceiling link I’ve ever experienced.