George did not have an umbrella. He refused to even consider the idea. Rain was a pleasure of the world… something bound by no man or God. It was a pure and perfect gift from the earth that so many had never truly embraced or understood. To George, it was to be cherished and savored. The rain at night gave no evidence of where it had come from. It merely was. There was no better time to know the glory of this sweet chill. Night afforded a privacy to indulge in such wonders. It was to be tasted slowly and prolonged… and so he stood at the center of an empty concrete parking lot… delighting in the cold.