It was well past midnight as outside the gentle autumn rain continued its lilting serenade, and inside, the fire in the corner fireplace had reduced to barely a glow. Inacatura sat before the secretary against the side wall, which provides a partial view of the seashore beyond through the second-story window, and where the secretary had always been, at least as far back as he could recall. Inacatura is, as it were, a creature of habit, not one to change on a mere whim, or much at all, for that matter. His venerable Underwood sat up close, patiently waiting for his practiced mental digits to once again caress, cajole, to seduce his only lover, ever, to faithfully record his creations upon the ancient parchment ready. You see, these days and nights, Inacatura now writes and continues to relive his stories of fiction, those ephemeral figments from his imagination and memories derived during his darkest midnight sojourns into his murky past, thereafter to again slip forward into the dawn's diurnal approach.
In the dead of night,
During those darkest hours,
The lonely raven squawks forever,
But not forever more,
As it shivers among the cattails,
Those ubiquitous creatures few,
Of the Pacific foothill foggy moor.
Inacatura remained in fitful doze, his faithful and venerable Underwood continuing its rap tap tapping, to insist and ensure that Inacatura's words and thoughts and memories-creative, make their twisted and tortured journey onto the parchment paper ancient, which patiently awaits and anticipates.