To a friend,

I feel a deep rumbling. Demanding, like the thick, dark, rolling clouds of a thunderstorm. Not so black that they're menacing, but the dark, ashy grey that's tangled up with white, so you're not sure how you feel about them. Are they beautiful, swirling like cracked marbles, or are they taunting you in their fluffy darkness, because you can barely fear them? Where are your manners, they ask you. Come clean under my storm. Come stand where I can strike you.

Sunshine