"Tell me about the icicles"

Icicles cling, but they don't often stab. They hold on tight to tilted roofs and drip-drop their way to the ground. One drop at a time. Taking their time. What's the rush when the sun doesn't shine?

I want to be an icicle. Maybe in some ways I am. I have murky stripes criss-crossing my icy waters. I can be sharp. I can be blunt. People that look at me, do tend to run.

But I don't need the sun in order to melt, for I have the burning fires of hell. Here at the end, the Beagle's tide swells. Pushing me up and out of this well. Are you coming as well?

I already know the answer.
Time, she is a dancer.
None of us can know her next steps.