A night for candlelight and inks and shadows and memories, fear welling from deep old wounds, and finding calm and comfort in the dark places where somehow, inexplicably, kindness waits. There are some things that do not live under the sun or walk within the day, and they need their hour also, their cavern, their softer lights. To speak and be answered, to hurt and be comforted. The night here is without rage, no violence, no cruelty, only the memories that smother, only the old wounds that ache. Here the breeze is cool and smells of stars, in the night where the trains run softly by, out to the sea.