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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