"I think about a storm rolling in with black clouds and I visualize the lightning and try to draw energy from that, and I think: all I have to do is beat this man until he stops moving, then I can go home to my son."

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Look, the world's comforter, with weary gait, His day's hot task hath ended in the west: The owl, night's herald, shrieks-'tis very late; The sheep are gone to fold, birds to their nest; And coal-black clouds, that shadow heaven's light, Do summon us to part, and bid good night.

— William Shakespeare