[ Though he isn't specifically seeking her out (or maybe he is), Yoite approaches Buddy when he sees her Tuesday around town. Ever since the trial on week 9 he's felt like he owes her for defending him.

But it wouldn't be Yoite if his thanks came in the form of a simple thank you.]

Hello, Buddy. You're coming to the meeting Friday, right?

[ Eventually, Yoite runs out of things to distract himself with. There's been one thing on his mind all day, something he's been forced to think of given San's death. There really wasn't a reason to hold back anymore.]

Dhaos, I haven't been completely honest with you. I want to tell you everything Kira is capable of, it doesn't just break bones. [ He hadn't said anything then, even at Clover's trial. The less they all knew, the better.]

I think it's necessary...given what's happening and what's going to happen. And in case I die. [ It was more of a realistic possibility than it had ever been.]

[ It's with a muddled mind that Yoite wakes up Monday morning, and it takes a while for him to stir. Despite how much he's slept he's still tired, and his head hurts. What happened last night was mostly a blur-- something about Satan and Lucifer, and he really can't be bothered to try to sort it out right now. The last thing he remembers is the death shocks and... He sits up abruptly with a start, looking for the man he's spent the past several weeks living with.]

Dhaos? Are you okay? [ Because it's the first thing he's worried about, because as far as he's concerned he's breathing and that's half the battle.]

" For he, who out of his over-abundant sense of compassion, rejected everyone and lived a life of despair, wishing for nothing and laying low, elimination was his first and last wish-- His was an existence demonized just for "being", and he wished for his own personal deletion." -- Hattori to Miharu, Volume 10

" The more my senses disappear... the more something I thought I'd killed and thrown away... flows into me. It makes me sick. I don't need Yukimi to tell me. I know. How foolish I am." -- Yoite to Miharu, Volume 6

"You're totally wrong. I can't stop killing. I've been living off the deaths of the Grey Wolves. I can no longer...descend from the mountain of corpses. You just need to become the Nabari no Ou and use your power to erase me out of hate." -- Yoite to Miharu, Volume 6

"Around here...once night falls, everything goes pitch-black. And there won't be a moon tonight either. ... I like night. All shape loses meaning and gets swallowed up by the dark. How much better would it be if my entire being were to fade away into nothing like this?" -- Yoite to Miharu, Volume 6

"Because you are such a kind child. You wish for the happiness of others over your own...a pitiable child. (...) Once I have obtained the secret art...I will paint a world that will not give birth to pitiable children such as yourself." --Hattori to Yoite, Volume 9

"In exchange for never getting close to anyone, he never had to worry about hurting them...that was the feeling I got from him."--Priest by the sea to Yukimi, Volume 9

[1]

"Above us, stars. Beneath us, constellations.
Five billion miles away, a galaxy dies
like a snowflake falling on water. Below us,
some farmer, feeling the chill of that distant death,
snaps on his yard light, drawing his sheds and barn
back into the little system of his care.
All night, the cities, like shimmering novas,
tug with bright streets at lonely lights like
his.
--Flying at Night, Ted Koser 1939

[2]


At night the states
I forget them or I wish I was there
in that one under the
Stars. It smells like June in this night
so sweet like air.
I may have decided that the
States are not that tired
Or I have thought so. I have
thought that. (...)

-- At Night the States, Alice Notley 2006

[3]

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example,'The night is shattered
and the blue stars shiver in the distance. (...)

-- Tonight I Can Write (The Saddest Lines), Pablo Neruda 1924

[4]
I began to see things in parts again,
segments, a pen drawn against the skin
to show where to cut, lamppost through the stained glass
with its etchings of light against the wall —
it was the middle of the night. It was something we would tell no one:
The hospital roads with standing water, I drove quickly through,
saying, you won’t have to stay. (...)

Breaking Across Us Now, Katie Ford 2010

[5] (...) The sky whitens, goes on and on.
Fields wrinkle into rows
of cotton, go on and on.
Night like a fling of crows
disperses and is gone.

What song, what home,
what calm or one clarity
can I not quite come to,
never quite see:
this field, this sky, this tree.

Hard Night, Christian Wimian 2005

[6] (...) So when my feeble sun of life burns out,
And sounded is the hour for my long sleep,
I shall, full weary of the feverish light,
Welcome the darkness without fear or doubt,
And heavy-lidded, I shall softly creep
Into the quiet bosom of the Night.

Mother Night, James Weldon 1922

[7] Twelve o’clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of memory
And all its clear relations,
Its divisions and precisions.
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium. (...)

Rhapsody on a Windy Night, T.S. Eliot 1920

[8] (...) And yet, it tasted, like them all,
The Figures I have seen
Set orderly, for Burial,
Reminded me, of mine—

As if my life were shaven,
And fitted to a frame,
And could not breathe without a key,
And ‘twas like Midnight, some—

When everything that ticked—has stopped—
And Space stares all around—
Or Grisly frosts—first Autumn morns,
Repeal the Beating Ground—

But, most, like Chaos—Stopless—cool—
Without a Chance, or Spar—
Or even a Report of Land—
To justify—Despair.

It was not Death, for I stood up (510), Emily Dickinson 1891

[9]

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light. (...)

Acquainted with the Night, Robert Frost 1928

[10]

I had not known before
Forever was so long a word.
The slow stroke of the clock of time
I had not heard. (...)

Forever, Paul Laurence Dunbar 1913