It's the end of the road, it is night, and clocks have changed again. One of the more peculiar institutions asks us about a change begun in March.
It is life, it's the sun, you may say. We need to build ourselves around it. A sting, a pain to accompany such a thing is no meaningful price.
It's a trap, I think. It's the sun, to it, a clock, it is nothing at all. The flesh and bone, the beat of the road, we care and can bend. Trying to capture the promise of spring in numbers misses everything. The oak when it blooms doesn't consult us.
Today isn't so bad. It's the end of a slope, today we get the hour back, delivering on the promise of spring. But I'm too traditional to cling to the newest fancies. Every year I recommended setting this aside, the end of the run, the end of all strain, on those dark March mornings.