At my desk I am slaving away to finish the slides and order I will speak for an upcoming presentation. It is hard work, requiring my mind to churn at an extreme rate, anticipating how the audience may respond and the possible turns speeches can potentially take with a phrase or word, song or comedy bit. I have to stand up, take a walk around, look outside, predicting what could happen if I insert a Lady Gaga song or Raptor impression to drive a point home, or choose instead to share a story the client asked me to include from their employee legacy vault of experiences that will most likely bring the audience to tears. I look from the 3rd story down to the grass below, contemplating the struggle I’m under in this thing I call WORK. Down in the weeds, bark, and bushes, I see a man hard at work. He is up and down, on hands and knees, wrestling with what appears to be sprinkler lines that won’t go the direction he needs them to. The pipes put up a fight, so he jumps back up, goes to his cart, grabs a tool, returns and cuts the line.