It is small comforts and dark thoughts, another midnight burned down to ash, another day awaiting this fool's pursuit. The wind at the windows, the light in the hall. Fill the hands with habits, stifle the eyes with any glow. Another word, another breath, another deal made with death. Tomorrow and tomorrow, that dread proposition, that forgotten faith. Sleep comes and goes. The night moves on without you.
Abandon this procession. Turn away from the lamp and your leanings. There is that enduring sadness, but that is only the sound of your soul. There is that usual litany, but those are only the words in the play. Things get worse, and things get better. No one is counting up your sins or waiting for your prayers. Take whatever portion you can bear, knowing that there are always prices, always burdens given with the gift of living. Feel what you can abide, then feel too much more. The world turns. Everything is change.
The stage is crowded, and overflows with clowns and villains. No-one knows you. Even your friends are strangers. You follow the lines, you scuff up your eyes with useless seeing. You sweat and ache and toil, and for all that effort there is precious little reward. There isn't a prize that feels like winning. There isn't a victory free of wounds and pain. Take your place, because only you can do this. Take the stage, because there isn't any one else. The scene opens, and it will end. Make do with that light while it lasts.