Death

If I die before I wake, I ran 5x1000 meter repeats right before I kicked the motherfucking bucket. My splits were between 3:12-3:15. I know boxing and other exotic pursuits are all the rage these days, but I must point out my joy in running and how I cannot approximate it to anything else. How else can a man feel such joy with mere 1000 meter repeats on a track--I'm not in the Andes, there is no beauty, right, of and on this track? Indeed the purist might speak of the beauty of the red track, but the joy comes from the speed and the motion and the rhythm of the running. Indeed, there is cycling, indeed. But it is an artifice, the necessary intermediation of the machine.
Indeed, death, you did not interrupt me. You did not occur. I do not know your name.