Someone perhaps spend a night embraced by warm blanket, and poured with sweet dreams. Then, that someone is a lucky person, or so I thought of it. The song of the night, the paint of the darkness, the opposite of the bright poetry, not everyone are aware of it.
Then again, night tells its own stories, which might not the same for each of you. So if you ask, “what it is?” – nobody has the right answer for you.
Stories told by night, that only you yourself can hear directly, by knocking the door of uncharted darkness. Hearing from other would give particularly nothing. The light only can truly seen by those who understand the dark.
Bhyllabus l'énigme 
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