lift the lid and look inside cubicles tightly packed filled with us, the happy worker bees gathering and making honey for giants to harvest held fast in our chairs by the promise that we may someday have hives of our own or fear that if we did not live to please the giants we would have no reason to live. and at 5 o'clock on fridays we are so out of there we climb rocks dance and drink run marathons and ride very very fast motorcycles all weekend long so we don't have to think about being content little worker bees we live wild and dangerous and free as long as we are back at the hive in time for the team meeting on monday where we try not to die of suffocation by process and percentage. staring at a graph of the number of productivity events that have happened since last monday and the slope of the trend line since the beginning of the quarter pretending that the magnitude of that number and the angle of that line represented something worth the time, the effort, the attention, and the passion of the walking and talking miracles that we are