It's hard not to respond to the tempo. Hard not to tap your feet to the sounds gyrating off the walls. The memory of your first kiss in the poke-a-dot shirt seem so far in the past. You wonder what attracted you to that person in the first place. The taste of salty skin surfaces and you feel silly as you touch your lips. The idea of being care free again is now buried away like old newspaper clippings in the cedar chest at the foot of the bed. You review your progression stanza by stanza still wondering about your timing.