Got really late at the office today. Spent most of my day dealing with belated tax issues that will enable me to collect back payments, from my freelance copyediting gigs. Noticed that my left front tire is dangerously thin, and deformed. Wonder how many days should I continue driving the car like this…

The loan money is almost gone. However, it made a lot of things possible while it lasted. I’m re-reading, for the second time, Haruki Murakami’s What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. Stopped and thought about page 47:

At any rate, that’s how I started running. Thirthy-three — that’s how old I was then. Still young enough, though no longer a young man. The age that Jesus Christ  died. The age that Scott Fitzgerald started to go downhill. That age ma be a kind of crossroads in life. That was the age when I began my life as a runner, and it was my belated, but real, starting point as a novelist.

Runner and novelist Haruki Murakami shirtless and training




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