You sit down in the morning on your own to write something. You get to the end of the day and it's not like you've cracked it and it's finished and it's done, because it can always be improved. It can always be changed. There is no right answer, so you can drive yourself crazy with just the expanse of infinite possibilities when it comes to writing.
I ran road when I was a kid, but for me now, trails are like getting away from the world. If you are a road-runner, you are dodging cars and whatnot, so for me, trail running is a release. When I get up in the morning and I go running, it's therapeutic. Especially in the mountains: the smell, the nature, the wildlife. It's so much nicer. It's easier on the body, since its softer.
- Might it console you to know that I expect nothing but torture from her return? That I regard you as a bird of paradise? She shook her head. - That my admiration for you is painfully strong? - I want Van – she cried – and not intangible admiration. - Intangible? You goose. You my gauge it, you may brush it once very lightly with the knuckles of you gloved hand. I said knuckles. I said once. That will do. I can't kiss you. Not even your burning face. Good-bye, pet. Tell Edmond to take a nap after he returns. I shall need him at two in the morning.