Why is it, when we make ourselves a conduit for words that write themselves, they only write of the darkness of the sky in midnight moonlight? Why do muses always form as a lustre for sunlight in the day rather than the day itself?

This not only seems necessary but a quality of the protagonist, to have some immesureable despair in his heart as he stands in silent nobility under a leafless tree waiting for the moment when his lips touches those of his muse if he should be lucky. The kiss, withheld by the muse for an immesureable amount of time, is well received. That moment, now past, can never be relived and thus becomes an impossible standard.

Yet even with this thought and acceptance of this impossibility, the protagonist's heart twirls upon the movements of his muse like a buoy in the middle of the ocean. Why can he see her urges but do nothing about them? Why does he feel as if he's heard this tale before? Do voices within him speak to him in silence about her fine dress catching bits of the drizzle in the night and her scarf waving tall and high towards the sky like a flag of his heart? There is an ambition to his soul in times of darkness, one that yearns for an outlet which never comes.