the loneliness of the long distance scam artist.
Midnight Bliss feeling the wind blow in your face as you sprint down the can feel the competition creeping up on your heels...then you kick, and break the ribbon with your chest.

there's no better feeling the feeling like a a champion.
vega I run for the last lap. There my body is thrown into a glorious surrender and i
Barrett Meep! Meep! 001107
rhuube While a world of joggers stops,
and pounds beloved cocncrete-
we runners find time to taste
the salty sweat that dances on our lips- once windburnt and chapped from a December wind that chilled us 6 months ago on a chilly tuesday when
we ran miles with a minute rest. You were friends with that grate in the infield after number 5. My heel blistered after 7. The blister has since callused over with five layers of dead skin. The top one's seen every mile of dirt trail in this city.

Luckily, time forgets to go along for the ride when runners run- like it's frozen by that same icy wind that once froze our four ounce Gatorade cups and made joggers turn that dial from seventy four to seventy five.
When runners run we can slow time down enough to feel each muscle contract, each tendon tighten, and each heart pulse through the cavity that joggers call the chest, but we call the orb.

When runners run, we become our own Wordsworth- creating poetry with iambs, but never feeling their necessity. Only needing that image- that perfect image- of the perfect stride, one that we'll never create, despite the thousands upon ten thousands of times our feet fly from the Earth only to return again- only each time- stronger.
what's it to you?
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