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Marching to its own beat

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When I write anything, I always do it to consistent background noise. It has something to do with rhythm; and each column--even each sports recap--gets its own song, its own album, its own beat.

My Deep Forest CD looped at least two dozen times during my Homeric quest to hand in an International Relations 501 thesis. It was 22 pages, but its rhythm never changed. My first paragraph sounds just like my last one, and in the meantime, Deep Forest almost drove me to insanity.

With this soundtrack still repeating in my mind, I contemplated my deed. I thought back to the extension I received, and wondered if extensions exist in the real world, or in love, or in life. I wondered why I had written 5,932 words for the benefit of three people, why the transnational activities of the Russian mob deserved my attention, and whether or not my paper would have been in on time had I not gotten sick.

As the music slowly faded, I answered those questions. My answers differ from yours, but that shouldn't come as a surprise. Your soundtrack is different than mine--we're bound to reach different conclusions.

I drove home, made a stop at Wendy's, and decompressed for an hour in front of the television. My dad sluggishly sauntered down the stairs, somewhat confused that I was still up. He made breakfast, got in his car, and drove to work.

Somewhere in there, my eyes closed and everything slowed to a crawl. Finally at peace, my head sunk into the pillow as I lay there fading away. I hardly noticed, though perhaps I should have, that Deep Forest turned to silence. My thesis sat merrily in a thin space between the floor and the door and I realized that it was finished (or over, or done).

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