(first sentence taken from duolingo)

The night is young.

It looks around and blinks, unsure of what to do, what to wear, or who to sit by. It cannot put a name to the feeling that burns in its chest; it does not know that it is silently throbbing with potential energy. The fire in its eyes can barely contain itself.

The night is young: it is innocent, naive, and alone. Its beauty is untouchable, undeniable, and unknowable, all at once. It pulses, it breathes; it releases a placid, almost disinterested sigh, wishing something would happen to it. From time to time, it tries to teach itself how to speak, only to fumble clumsily over the syllables. The night is young and the night is old, so old. Centuries of constellations span its skin like freckles, like letters, like music notes. Despite wars and night raids, it has witnessed mankind almost exclusively when it is at peace. At rest.

The night fills every crack and crevice of the universe with its dark, sacred grace. All is still.

The night is young.