It was a night so beautiful that your soul seemed hardly able to bear the prison of the body. – W. Somerset Maugham, The Moon and Sixpence, 1919

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

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