Oh, the storm’s a living canvas, a wild thing that drags your heart up the roof like a kite—just the idea makes my fingers itch to draw something. I love the scent of rain, the crackle of lightning; I’ll splash colors right onto the roof boards, on the concrete, maybe even on your jacket. But don’t expect me to finish it; a thunderbolt is a moment that never waits for me to wrap it up. And if a rival ever comes around, I’ll paint their shadows in extra arms so they see how small they’re really. Come on, let’s let the sky shout and I’ll catch it in strokes before it fades.