There is a mystery to the night ocean. The effect of gazing out into the void of sea and sky and stars and moon, standing alone late at night on the outermost coast of a great land, surrounded by sea smell and whisper of grass and sand and trees, with a strong wind on a cold December night, looking east at the nothing of the great ocean, where the lip of the world makes its slow, graceful curve at the limit of sight and fantasy, the great sky ringed with cloud but baring the bright full moon and many soft stars to human eyes, has an effect upon the soul of man not replicable by any method and hardly describable by any solitary man. A strange draught of melancholy, spiced with loneliness and desire for someone to hold onto tightly, though they are not there, were never there, never will be, and no one else will be either, though others go forth not alone. You will, it’s what you’ve always done, gamely soldiering on, bleeding from a thousand tiny slashes from a thousand tiny claws, struggling to keep ahead. Swimming on, your head never quite under the water, going forward, knowing you won’t make it. But somehow you do, though you ache and cry for respite, never given, until the day you lose your reason for going forward and stand on a cliff at night, lit by celestial lamps, looking out at the vast black watery chasm, thinking of how you must spend your days among happy men of light and substance. Probing your own hollowness, wondering what fills it, half-afraid that you know. Still the night ocean sighs and shouts over the deep, as it always has and will.