Night, the beloved. Night, when words fade and things come alive. When the destructive analysis of day is done, and all that is truly important becomes whole and sound again. When man reassembles his fragmentary self and grows with the calm of a tree. РAntoine de Saint-Exup̩ry

Every sleepy boy and girl in every bed around the world can hear the stars up in the sky whispering a lullaby. – Mary Chapin Carpenter

I cannot walk through the suburbs in the solitude of the night without thinking that the night pleases us because it suppresses idle details, just as our memory does. – Jorge Luis Borges