Cold breath of the lake strikes me stride-for-stride heading up South Shore Drive. I’m picking up the pace now, running with traffic not against. A sky so blue the back of my sockets float takes me out to the placid ommm center beyond the geese and glass. A few miles later the pain in my shins subsides giving way to euphoria not even dead eyes can dampen.

The urinal cultural center reeks distinctly — bordering plaid-clad golfers on the links. Collision manifests as a hulking SUV strikes the rounded wall nearest to my ear; a side mirror explodes, imitating a muffled gunshot accompanied shortly by the grisly reality of grinding of metal on concrete, the screeching of new brakes and tires.

Inside, I pull the reins, slowing my breath. I can’t look back. I’ve seen too much. Soon though, I’m back on the breezy lake. I own this path and it owns me: a stranger working for harmony, homeostasis, home. Straddling the beach, hugging the turns, this brain takes a seat near the back.