It is past noon. I have not even attempted to get out of bed except to go to the bathroom and eat a nectarine. I've written. I've tried to ignore the dull pain in my thighs. I know I'm going to have to wait until later to run now. I imagine it's too hot outside, though I refuse to actually open a window or check the weather. It must be too hot.
I will run tonight. Or in fifteen minutes. Or perhaps never again. I don't know. How could I know? Those zombies might be at the door. Right. Now.
Oh, man. I'm toast.
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