The world rests in the night. Trees, mountains, fields, and faces are released from the prison of shape and the burden of exposure.

Each thing creeps back into its own nature within the shelter of the dark. Darkness is the ancient womb. Nightime is womb-time. Our souls come out to play. The darkness absolves everything; the struggle for identity and impression falls away. We rest in the night.

JOHN O’DONOHUE