The Subconscious Submission of a Long Distance Runner

I had some resting to do and then some explaining to do,

but it was so fucking hot in here

that I couldn't keep my train of thought on track

I was waking up every two minutes and forty eight seconds

and I was none to happy about it

So I parked myself at the window and I tried to find something,

something to fixate on,

apparently, like infatuation, my ability to fixate had always,

sooner rather than later,

served me slumber on a silver platter

Perhaps it was that I believed me to be more interesting,

could that be it?

But then again, I was wrong more often than not

and I was born to run this way and that,

and to carry my shoes around on a hanging string

And I wrote my numbers all over my feet to show you,

show that even if I wasn't more interesting,

I would always have more endurance,

and I would audition far more epitaphs than you

far more,

before settling on my own,

and then I would run that right into the ground,

like I did everything else---