Daylight savings was yesterday. Half of my clocks lurched forward an hour while half remain defyingly displaying the past's future hour. There is a time warp between my living room's entertainment center and my kitchen's microwave. I have the power to end this rip in the space-time continuum which causes chronological confusion from my bedside to my desk. But I hesitate to provide the equilibrium of consistent time. I have found a chaotic comfort in my time jumps — always questioning my grasp on my current position in the day. If the hour is debatable it ceases to be exact. It becomes inaccurate, fallible and no longer held in the esteem of unquestionable fact. Time, for me, truly does become relative, relative to my microwave, my alarm clock, my phone, my disposition, my procrastinating nature. I have become Tempus Rector within the walls of my home and, for the time being, time is on my side. But now it is late, or perhaps really late, and I must sleep to wake promptly at the hour of my choosing, be it desk clock or wall clock — only time will tell.