Rain all night and all day, turning the world outside the window into a gray smear—one truth of the world as it is now in how we see it. I sketch the bedroom window, trying to catch the bleak non-view beyond it, the fact of its bleakness: a wall of white siding, a blank window, and rising above the roofline another more jagged roofline, the brutalist building across Sherman Avenue inhabited it seems mainly by older folks, poor folks, and, on the ground floor, our polling place, where I’ve voted in so many elections. Eliot’s advice: wait without hope.