Trafika Europe 3 - Latvian Sojourn

don't dare fix my gaze there for long, on the home of the Archangel, so instead my eyes follow the smaller mast of light, the white clock faces. They shine straight at me: the harbor tower. Where should I sail away to? I get dressed. I don't have the right clothes or storm gear to stand proudly on the deck. I have nowhere to sail to now, so it wouldn't make any sense. I know what I have to do this morning, at dawn: run. Running is a forgotten pleasure, but that's not the point now; we're talking about survival. About escape – running usually turns out to be the path to it. The only difference is the starting and ending points – from what or from whom, and to where and why am I running? – everything is still unclear. I don't care if I look ridiculous in my hiking boots and too- short shorts verging on Speedos. I don't glance at the professional maniacs who start while it's still dark, I pass them by as if they’re shadows stuck inside fancy three-ply runner’s gear made of revolutionary fibers. I'm hopelessly sweaty, dark wet stains appear in my armpits and on my back. I don't have a hat or a visor or earphones to sway to some rhythm like those sports zombies on the paths. They pass, meet and go around me because I don't swerve, I run in a straight line. A tall German with his two-meter-long strides tries to pass me – I don't think so, my friend. You may not realize it, but I can tolerate pain. My heels are

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