The night comes with tragedy:

The leaves unturn in their seats, a din and murmur as the wind steps through their eaves. The rain plods heavy onto cobblestone, pat pattering the footsteps of Anxiety, who breaks out in a sprint. The London fog begins its weary patrol, nestling in the darkened corners of the street and drowsily creeping through the gutters, weaving amoungst the detritus of the day. The moon struggles in vain to see its reflection in so many puddles, the clouds angrily choking her and stealing from her her light. I sit here in my night coat and drearily count the drops that bash against these window panes, as if to fight against the fragile glass.

And finally Anxiety finds my home, hurries through the yard on the tips of his feet, and raps quickly against my chamber door. He shouts, loudly so I can hear: “Leviathan is awake! Run, run, while you can!”, and my weary eyes, they sag.