Everything happens at night

For one thing your feet grow.
Toenails faster than that.
Armpit hair—it goes, or rather, grows, without saying.
Nose hair. Yikes. At night. It happens. Somewhere at night a toilet flushes, a fart resounds in the porcelain bowl of night's intermission. All in the night. Poets dream whole entire poems in the night and then only reach line 56 when the postman knocks in the morning. Cats, this is a fact, grow big as houses each night. Just ask a rat. It happens at night, of that there is little doubt! All the news that's fit to print? At night. And don't forget: night wears long slinky dresses and no underwear, blue tuxedos and string ties, pleated shirts and laundry tickets in its hatband. Night gets drunk, drives on the wrong side of the white line because there are no lines in the night, that's why bird don't sleep on telephone wires—Night will not stop to spare you or forgive you—will not answer your pathetic question about guardian angels and swords of fire. Night is black fire. It is breathing in, without end. It is the dark felt dryer lint in God's navel and he's going to pick through it after a cold one.