I'm often asked what I think about as I run. Usually the people who ask this have never run long distances themselves. I always ponder the question. What exactly do I think about when I'm running? I don't have a clue.

I just wanted to write something about running, but I realized that to write about my running is to write about my writing. It's a parallel thing in me.

The world in books seemed so much more alive to me than anything outside. I could see things I'd never seen before. Books and music were my best friends. I had a couple of good friends at school, but never met anyone I could really speak my heart to.

Wherever there's hope there's a trial.

We knew exactly what we wanted in each other. And even so, it ended. One day it stopped, as if the film simply slipped off the reel.

This uneasiness comes over me from time to time, and I feel as if I've somehow been pieced together from two different puzzles.

I couldn't tell wether the hole that opened up inside me was from missing you or from the change of season