There is a sound I like especially. It is the underside of raindrops and how they come to the outside of my umbrella. It is a sound I like to share, but not too much. There must always be more people than umbrellas, or more forgetful, or optimistic, or arrogant people who own but somehow do not carry an umbrella, for me to share. Well, I do not share. I sell umbrellas to people with wet hair. Nobody with dry hair every buys an umbrella. Nobody wants to look like that, so like anal. We like to pretend we are insouciant, and I can help that along becuase the umbrellas are three dollars it's fun to leave them behind. You see what I do then is on sunny days, when there is nothing for me to do but buy guns but because it is sunny I have no money to buy guns, I go around and collect umbrellas. You buy one from me when it rains and your hair is already wet, you buy one and hold it strangely, and then leave it behind, like you like. I watch you; my eyes follow. And on the sunny days I trace your footsteps picking up all your umbrellas. Then maybe tomorrow it will rain, and I have these litlle baglets I insert them in, in something that is I suppose clumsy and sexual, and I stand in front of Starbucks and sell them to you. One day, when I grow tired of my guns, I will save money. I will buy a Honda del Sol, because maybe your lease is up, and then I will select my favorite gun and drive to Albequerque, where I am told it is always sunny.