Thursday, July 27, 2006
6 June 1987
It's like a worn gravel; a white gravely dust, stretching on to where
the grass begins at the foot of the mound. The bank sweeps down
to a scribble of water plants, and it smells. That's what's left
of where I need to run. I'm focussing on my breath, and the pain trail
branching into my left and right lungs; a sharp strap edging along the hip.
I stop here and look back, and see figures bobbing out of the mirage.
Sweat stings my eyes. There's a promise here somewhere, it's waiting
in the distance. It's shaped like an oil stain and hides its scent
beneath the dried clay. I'm off again; I see people appear, screaming
left and right, with banners and cars out over the incline. I know
it will soon quieten down and there won't be much more to it: this vague
track that tastes like cement. I feel it through the hairs on my arms.
// posted by George Manka @ 12:42 PM 
