I'm starring out the window, watching the night and praying that sooner or later the sun will rise. Starlight throws an austere bleakness across the lawn, and I saw myself reflected in the freezing dew. Wind blows through the open window, brining the scent of grass and despair. Its high spring but winter stayed late this year; the green on the trees is distorted as if frozen in death itself. The New Moon radiates a dreary bleakness as it bleeds drops of oblivion that gather on my window sill, budding into nightmares that fly across my mind like flies on the corpse of The Dream that crashed and burned so many nights ago. Whispers echo across the ebon sky and longing I reach out to catch them. Ripples echo across the night as my hand plunges in, searching for those things that wither under the sun, leaving only the dry husk of blood and flesh to wander aimlessly; filled with only their shattered desires and lies to drive them on and avoid the night that will always linger in their souls. The cold suffuses the air as I drag the world through the window and blackness floods the room. Tracing my steps away from the portal, I sink between the sheets. The arms of Night close around me as its head hits the pillow, crooning softly as the nightmares rise and carry me away. Through my eyelids all the colors of black dance, glistening in sweet, ethereal clarity. I know what this is. It's suicide. But I will not give them the satisfaction of blood.