I’m cooked, just going for a jog

Today on the great ocean road we ran and ran and ran and ran. It was hard, by which I mean it was difficult. Then I rewarded myself by purchasing some trackpants. I wanted black, but the grey ones were the style and size I wanted. It became less of a basic reward and more of a discretionary shop when it started raining heavily. It was a great excuse to use the change rooms and change out of my running gear and into some fresh underpants and socks. I’m looking forward to a shower. My poor feet are blistered, not too badly, but worse than usual after a run – which is strange. The race itself, was strange because there wasn’t much signage, stating progress. The km’s passed me by just the same, but the internal monologue was abashed. Counting down is a wonderful thing, in that the end is in sight, tracked.

I wonder what would happen if everyone knew when they would die. NOT how they would die. But when, roughly, rounding down. Would that motivate people? Would it fill them with dread? Change the way our societies behave?

The planes going down and the old man turns to the air hostess. He say “You’ve still got time to make an old man happy.” – What a weird fucking joke, right?

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