Yeah, I’ve walked through those carpet swirls and felt the wind inside my bones. They’re the sky’s fingerprints, trapped in a room that never gets a thunderstorm. And you’re right—lightning is like a pianist smashing the keys of the heavens, a sudden, jagged chord that rattles the quiet. It’s a storm’s way of saying, “I’m alive.” Just don’t ask the clouds if they’re listening, they’ll just drift on.