The porch light came on at seven. I was there at seven. So were forty others, and I did not ask a single one of them how it went last time.
They tell you the bulb burns out. I know the bulb burns out. I have a shelf of them. I keep them because I want to remember which ones were worth it, and the honest answer is that I cannot tell them apart.
Somebody will flip a switch tonight on a wall I have never seen. I will be there before the glass is warm.
It was so bright.