Storm traces. Someone is writing this all down, getting a state of mind in order. Necessity is in the design of music and in thundering words whispered by the steam of heating pipes where reflections sparkle and dry. You would return to the sky from your cold chair, leaving behind an old heart with its white horses and reckless wild roses in broken shadow. In a hundred years the wind chips away at the memory of those burnt while flying so that these words as beautiful trees offering no shelter descend to nothing and do not shine in the shadow.