There's a monstrosity to Daylight Saving Time. It's Victor Frankenstein, lopping an hour from the sweetest part of the day and stitching it sloppily onto dusk. You go from bounding out of bed bathed in light to hauling your limbs, one by one, into darkness. Forcing down breakfast in darkness. Slipping out for the paper in darkness.
The missing daylight boomerangs back, of course, but it comes too late, slapping you across the face like true love after a couple of weddings and three kids. Light unneeded and unwanted, but impossible to ignore.
I recognize my irritation is out of proportion, my prose too purple, my rage too raw. I have bigger problems, and you do, too.
But there's a satisfaction in resisting the inevitable. It's what we do for most of our lives, up to end, down to the dregs.
Do not go gently into this new time zone. Rage, rage against the mauling of the light.