6:57am

At 6:13 in the morning, I began to run backward. I wasn't jogging. Jogging is for pussies. And running backward is the only way to figure out how to move forward. My stride was convincing and more importantly, resilient.

And like every other competitor worth the weight of their sole [soul], I would pass the time by stringing these thoughts together faster than I did the Barrel of Monkeys.

You are terrible at running. At first, I thought it was because you called it jogging, which ultimately meant that you didn't take it seriously. But it wasn't your fault. Talking to you about this is like talking to someone who has never had an orgasm. And when you asked me what an endorphin high was, I felt sorry for you.

You had your life in front of you, fresh joints to break in, nothing to look back at, and yet nothing to run from. Or so you said. But we all have something to run from.

And if you're really lucky, someday, at dawn, you will cement those headphones into your earlobes, and you will hear the distant fade of inferior footsteps, and you will think only of finishing---all the while looking out on the horizon realizing what it is you are running for.

I just liked to stir the pot---

and make these dust clouds a little more legitimate.