2023.04 April Ambiguities

My feet hurtled through the month of April, like in one of those dreams where you walk down a staircase, trip, leap to catch balance but realize mid-air that you’ve leaped too far to land well, and just as your feet connect with the ground—usually more stairs—you jerk awake, not sure where you are, and why your legs are not broken.

Tempelhof, the former airport, dating back to 1920s, built in the style of the Roman Empire gone industrial, where I picked up my half-marathon starting card. Then the run. 2:29:02, whole 24 seconds better than last year. Then Frankfurt for business. South of Germany (Baden-Württemberg) for pleasure, 800km drive to Poland to make it in time for the christening of my god-daughter—from now on, I can unapologetically do my impression of Marlon Brando talking with Enzo the baker in the opening scene of The Godfather—Then back to Berlin, and whoosh, off to Tenerife with my mates for a male-only week of exploration and stupidity. That last item is going to have a separate album.

Mailman Running

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