Marching through March, angsting through April

There are paces in life, sometimes steady and measured, sometimes disciplined and militaristic, sometimes a long slog.
Or you can go loopy-loo and skip through the daisies one minute; loppy-la-la swung through the trees by your hair the next.
I dunno what the rhythm is at the moment, feel like I'm slouching out of step. No plans or dreams on the boil; a sort of sleep-walking with banal vistas interupted by odd forays into the bizarre.