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. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, because their words had forked no lightning, they do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, and learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight. Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Claire [reading a Dylan Thomas poem]
Matt: Tell me something about your day.
Claire: Uh, something about my day. OK, I saw some lipstick at the grocery store. I may have stolen it.
Matt: Why.
Claire: I don’t know. I just… I’ve spent so much money in that store over the years. Whatever, one lipstick, it’s not a big deal.
Matt: Claire, it’s a little weird.
Claire: Well, I’m not gonna do it again. It was dumb. Are you mad at me?
Matt: I didn’t know I was married to a delinquent.
Claire: Oh my god, I knew I shouldn’t have told you.
