Over in Roxbury -- a name that I hope someday I will be able to disassociate from that mind-bogglingly annoying Saturday Night Live sketch -- it looks like the middle of the night, some poor guy is sitting slumped on the roof of a building when a blonde woman joins him. "That was fast," he says, and she tells him he said she didn't have much time. Thunder crashes, and he says she was right, that it's going to rain. "There is hope in raindrops. Isn't that what you said? What does that even mean?" he says, and she explains, crouching beside him, that every drop of rain holds the promise of regrowth, each has a purpose, even if it doesn't know it. "I think we can feel that way, that we don't have a purpose. But we do."
He looks at her for a moment, and then bolds to the edge of the roof, stopping himself from going over and down what looks like four or five storeys, and she yells, "Jim!" and then he asks if she believes what she's saying about purpose, since she knows how he feels, and she said she knows pain and said she wants to kill herself too, and she agrees, and so he asks her what her reason to stick around is. Has she found her purpose? She looks haunted and doesn't answer. He lets himself start to fall backward -- if you can't be melodramatic when you're killing yourself, when can you? -- but she grabs hold and somehow manages not to be dragged over with him despite him being twice her size. She's braced against the low wall that's stopping him from going right over, and he tells her that she did her best, but he doesn't believe in hope anymore; all he knows is that they're all going to die. She stares at him, anguished, and then finally lifts her legs up and they go plunging over the wall together, flattening the roof of some poor bastard's taxicab directly underneath them, Jim under her, blood splattering the white frame of the cab, which we should all sincerely hope doesn't belong to Travis Bickle.