There are days that are wet and grey like melancholy, when the words melt on your tongue before they can be spoken, when you think you almost feel yourself dissolving into molecules as you move through the city. If you are lucky, a boy pulls you close so you can bury your head in his scarf and breathe him in. Later, walking down the streets on the Lower East Side, the cold, plump raindrops on your face are not unpleasant.