The last time I got caught sans roof in the middle of a thunderstorm was with you. This is a love thing, sorry. You were outdoorsy and hated the word. I was raised in cities, one bigger than the next, and didn't know if hiding under trees was OK. Unable to offer protection I sang you a song from my singing days. When the whole thing was over you cried a bit as I smoked in the Kia, both trying to release tension. As you can see, I've been learning French, mon amour. I've been training myself to block the shame before it strikes, ma cherie. Won't come as a surprise to anyone that I've been leaving you messages on the walls of places you'll never visit.