there is a want that keeps wanting, in the spiral night of stars, it waits. truth is infinitely patient, and rests on dew soaked pastures, collects between tree limbs, crests on an endless drizzle of falling leaves, to passionately erode in weightless care, to haunt the spaces between the silent tread of muted snow. the ice. the frozen waves of avalanches. the lapse in your reasoning that calls out to the sun aching for light. truth is infinitely patient, and waits behind the door ajar, and pines each heart to yearning, in ageless whispers of destiny and discontent, the formation of memory, it calls to the human race in dust strewn by the wind, to speak that most ancient tongue, to carve on the edge of expanses, the language we forgot.