Laufen,unendlich Laufen...

Round three. We share a common goal. You run; you run until the dirt below your feet begins to disintegrate into dust, particles falling off the earth in heaping mushroom clouds. You run through squalor, through Port-au-Prince, past twenty seven thousand kilometers of malaria, typhoid fever, tuberculosis and HIV. Past two million dying souls and barely formed fingertips. But your feet—they won’t take you past what you endure within your heart.

Round three. I love you and your calloused hands, splintered and hardened by ramshackle two by fours and rotting plywood.