Damp and downtrodden, sitting on a stoop wth dirt under my toenails. Shoes, socks, they were lost along the way. I'm catching my breath which doesn't seemed to have stopped running. Leftover lights give a sprinkling of levity and warmth. Where am I?
When I've collected myself and felt for my wallet and watch (in their respective pockets, somehow I always manage to get that right) I find a small twig. The plan is to dig out some of this dirt, scrape off as much as I can, minimize the leavings, minimize the questions. But after awhile one finetunes the lenses, picks up on less and less I suppose.
The only way I can stop myself is to stop running. Run away from the hair, the eyes, the body, the perfume, the opportunity. Run run run back to what I know, to what, really, I want. At least it's keeping me in shape.
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