Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Full disclosure demands that I cop to the fact that but for being a fan of Rodney Dangerfield, Dylan Thomas's "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night" is a poem of which I would have no knowledge at all.
Thank you, Thornton Melon. Nothing expresses the rage I feel annually at this occasion's appearance on the calendar as well as your succinct, beautiful recitation of Thomas's work. No day makes me angrier than the one that marks the end of Daylight Savings Time. It is not merely a day on the calendar. It is the commencement of a sentence. A sentence that shall last until March 13, 2016.
For the next five and one-half months, there shall be at least five days each week in which I will not see my home in the daylight. Arriving at work before dawn is something I have done, by choice, for close to two decades. Even when days are at their longest here in the State of Concrete Gardens, in the latter half of June, I outrace the sunrise to Parsippany every day. Winning that race never bothers me. My ride home at night - irrespective of my departure time - is bathed in sunlight.
Not now. And more importantly, not for the next five and one-half months. I shall take up residency in the House of Mole and grind my teeth in anger at the state of perpetual darkness into which I shall be forced to dwell.
If you are one of those blissfully ignorant miscreants who jumps for joy at the prospect of receiving a one-time only gift of an additional hour of sleep tonight as Nature's consideration for fucking you out of daylight for the next five and one-half months, then permit me to offer you this piece of advice, unsolicited as it may be, which might just save your life tonight as you trick-or-treat:
Irrespective of how friendly the unshaven man in the dirty sweatshirt seems to be, do not get into his windowless van...