The snow is melting, a rhythmic dripping outside my drudged windows. It is as a metronome, keeping me from moving too quickly or too slowly. There are days it feels like society is such, binding us to perfect time, without the fluxing rubato of individuality. Sometime I want to bend outside the lines, rushing forward to meet destiny...fate...or even just the little drips of conjecture and times I want to pull back into a languid dream and let my thoughts be as lazy ripples on a sunbathing pool. The drip, drip, drip pulls me back until even my heart betrays me and falls into perfect time.