It is hard not to notice that among the Writings in the archives a certain number take as their setting the middle of the night, when the speaker is unable to sleep. Further, the voice in many of these nocturnal meditations seems to be deeply related to that in the others, so much so that it has been put forth that it is the same voice in all. This may go too far — certainly the circumstances in some seem mutually inconsistent, but the similarity of the state of mind of their Author(s) was thought sufficiently pronounced to warrant placing them together under one heading.

None of these Writings bears a title in its original state, and their arrangement here is not intended to imply any kind of progression in the chronology of their composition (or theme, if such a through-line can be deduced). Nevertheless, {the dark} does seem to describe a novel situation to which the speaker has yet to become incompletely adapted.

No such discomfort tinges the awareness of the speaker in {awake}; on the contrary, a note of weary anxiety creeps in near the end, bespeaking conditions that are becoming tiresome, in ironic contrast to the eternal peace of the music of the night.

Obviously, the speaker in {disembodied} has come to the end of life, and one imagines the placing of its last period will be the penultimate action its speaker ever takes.

And yet, {the moonlit garden}, its companion piece (the two Writings were found right together) seems to counterpose the wise Saying of the Remnant, "Anything can always happen."