Night was old.
it had seen its fair share of sunrises and sunsets,
beginnings and endings.
it had watched over oceans,
seen them boil and become dry and desolate, devoid of life.
it had been witness to wars and acts of cowardice,
a keeper of secrets and blood.

Night was old,
and growing older still.
it remained the one constant, maintaining its shadows and mysteries
while everything around it shifted and changed.
it still slipped from fingers like black silk.
it still concealed dangers like a shroud.
it still was.

Night was old,
and would remain so until the end of everything,
in which case it would become Nothing.

Nothing was new.