I watched the crows scatter as the clouds rolled in by scores and composition, a roiling storm that rained in notes through the f-holes of my violin soul. Their wings had been torn in the shape of your music and their cries gave rise to your sinister metronome. Relentless were the pace of the tick and the tock, the lightning and the shock, and the crashing of thunder that shook the foundations of your empty concert halls. Their barren walls bled solitude in silence and yet your composer held firm to his composure, slicing venomously at the air with sword in hand. Coat tails whipping in the gales and still the music played. Diving on a broken wing through the dividing currents of your lyrics, the crows gave chase…and still the music played...