I have fallen head-over-heels in love with an obsessive compulsive named Flow. She smells of incomplete lists and eucalyptus trees.For two days I watch her, sitting on our porch. A torch in one hand, a shovel in the other, dressed it her yellow boots, just looking at the sky. 'But Flow,' I sigh softly, as her tired tiny body tries not to cry. 'I beg you, I beg you, please come back inside.'But Flow doesn't hear me - she sits there for the week. Unable to eat, drink, think or sleep; just waiting for the snow to fall imperfectly at her feet.