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The streets were dark with something more than night.

Night is the mother of thoughts.

Running at night used to frighten me. Part of it was simply safety, the question of whether level ground would truly appear under each tentative footstep, and whether the temporary but complete blindness suffered while running toward headlights was, in fact, concealing death.

The world at night, for much of history, was a very dark place indeed.

Night comes to the desert all at once, as if someone turned off the light.

One may not reach the dawn save by the path of the night.

Even though it was six o'clock, there was no sense of approaching dawn.

Something attempted, something done, Has earned a nights repose.

In the twilight, it was a vision of power.