The groove.
It may not always seem like much - a cup of bitter coffee, another day spent under the flickering fluorescent lights of an office, an overly long queue at the check-out of a suffocating supermarket. But it is also the broken china scattered around the apartment after last night's row, the scent of burnt meat and birch wafting through an endless evening, an impenetrable smile on a crowded morning train. It goes round and round and round again, sometimes dark, sometimes light; it has drama. And when the tree finally comes down one day, it is exposed for everyone to see; a transmission into the future.

But it always makes you dance. How wouldn't it? It's a groove, for god's sake.