It's Michael Stipe's fault

Why am I feeling so listless and unfocused this morning? I don't feel like I'm here. Physically I'm sending little letters racing across the screen, warming a seat, breathing. My soul isn't here. It's lying on a hill, limbs and body entwined with another's. The wind blankets our skin, spring smell in the air, flower petals falling around us... flowers. Ah, that's it. It's that R.E.M. song that carrying me on this little mental journey. Flowers of Guatemala. Life's Rich Pageant. The promise of good times to come.

*glances over at the clock*

I'll have to leave that hillside for the time being. Work beckons. Actually it doesn't beckon as much as glare at you and tap it's finger against the clock on it's wrist. Yeah, yeah. The letters are off and running again. Clackety clackety clackety...