Here it comes again. A small mountain of water shatters against the tubular walls of this seemingly fragile structure. I can barely enjoy my cup of steaming tea in this mayhem as it spills all around the edges. I just know that this tumultuous night will be memorable. I anticipate the strife and the grief. But no matter, no matter, I better focus on the task at hand… I wipe my tea-moist hand on the apron to get better purchase on the knife. I finish chopping the other half of the onion just as another liquid hill disintegrates against the western side. I spy the black amalgam of bubbling foam from an oblong window. The iridescent beacon of light beaming from the lamp room upstairs flashes aimlessly at a vacant horizon: nobody’s coming. More specifically: he’s not coming. The effervescence of the murky waters reminds me of the chowder bubbling turbulently on the stove just as it’s about to splill over. I soothe it with my breath. One more molten mound explodes against the wall by the stove. The tea has gone cold, but the warmth of this chunky soup revives my senses as it slowly descends: it gives me hope.