Maybe things seeming worse at night represents a faulty philosophy of the finality of life – the darkness from which we came and into which we ultimately must go. We forget that the only reason we exist at all is because we tried to interpret this cycle, becoming half of a DNA strand, we grew eyes and ears and the other half coalesced into great balls of burning gas floating in cycles all around us. Our emptiness grasps at these waves of light, which flower into creation in the chasms of our senses. We look into our own emptiness and think how dreadful it would be to be stuck forever in such a state, barely noticing the echoes countering our weight as we ripple together through infinite space.