The cloud is thick and fast-moving, tempestuous in its will, mesmerising tired eyes with grey and silver shadow. The bulging under-belly rumbles deep overhead as white streaks crackle and fizz, cutting woolly fists like hot spears. A heaviness hangs in the air, dank above the moving trees - there is a certain fluidity to their movement - a graceful sway that jars with the ferocity of the wind. I place a warm palm on the window and my fingertips are traced by cold drops of rain. Slither down the glass; twist into each other - those transparent veins vying for the earth. It stirs something in me. Teaspoons chinked on glass skulls of thought. Messy, illuminating, a wild-eyed girl stuck behind two glass panes.