What the night will have

I am sitting here, like never before.  What I want is something other than all.  What I want is to sit beside the sea as it laps up against me, and sense what I know most.  Despite the night, we crawl.  Despite what I have said in leaves of autumn, I will believe once again.  But when the treasures of the dawn are at their most solemn edge, here the lack will cover us in our golden thread.  Believe me when I say I do not have the stomach for this.  But that is fine, for when the dancing of the twilight is near at hand, here sense will prevail in darkest places.  But what we must not be sure of, is that which hounds us to our dying day.  And that is that when the shards of inconsistency are at their most precious, we will find a way to survive, and have it come to us like we never knew how.  Be quiet now, there are things we must not say.  And in saying them, I will hear forever in that lonely stream that has glass on its bed, and the dreams of everyone as its demise.