Do not go gentle into that goodnight. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

[Why? Huh? That’s what I want to ask. Shit, I’m dying! Don’t tell me to pull back. You moron, I’m a toddler in the doorsill. Don’t tell me to change direction. You think you know more about this shit than I do? What the hell? Why shouldn’t I go gentle into that goodnight? To please you? It’s always gotta be about you? Fuck! What more lovely way to go than to go gently? What comes next? You don’t know any more than I do. Don’t tell me how to do it. Why do you get to define what experience I have? It’s dishonest. Why should my dying be about you? Get out and don’t tell me how to die. I was halfway there, and you pulled me back. Don’t tell me to rage. I’ve fought, I’ve struggled all my life. This is my time to relax, shithead. Get real.]

Go ahead, feel free if you like. Go gentle into that goodnight, embrace as you wish the dying of the light.