Ahh Cicadas. That sound. The sound of the death throes of summer. That metal water spigot outside my modest house on the corner of the block, with dozens of colored rings of failed water balloons still wrapped around it. The fun is over, it is over, for the cold has set in, the darkness is here, depression comes reaching out to me. Its calling me. To fight it off is to fight every day, to make due of the little I can.
Does it snow where you are? Fight it off with a snowball fight.
Target: those brats that ride their bikes in front of all the traffic.
That is your mission if you choose to accept it.