I started reading The Wasteland. I like this bit.
"At the violet hour, when the eyes and back
Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits
Like a taxi throbbing waiting,
I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,
Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see
At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives
Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,
The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights
Her stove, and lays out food in tins."
No food in tins for us tonight. It's almost that violet hour when we get to go home. Thank you T. S. Eliot. You totally rule.