RUNNER’S HIGH

6.30 AM and the world’s still yawning, steam rising from the streets as the sun plays over them. It’s just you and your running shoes, pounding out a hypnotic, endorphin-doped beat against the deep green blur of trees. The last neon rainbows of an 80’s synth ripple through your headphones; the song ends. And in that crack of silence: a burst of raw birdsong, the blare of a distant car horn, the silver sparkle of a bicycle bell. Messages for anyone and everyone: Here I am, these streets are mine.