Tacos

I've been itching to post, and everything I write seems positively unsuitable for the whole of the web. So this is from a long time ago, deal with it.

I'm sitting in my favorite place to sit when I'm sweaty, up against the east wall that faces west. I love to be sweaty when I can sit, and let it drip and soak as long as I like. I love when my muscles are hot and cold and that feeling in my lungs like I've done something worth writing about--worth sweating about.

Running on summer nights is one of the best things the telestial world has to offer.
The warmth and the breeze and the people lazing together outside, the newfound temperature heightening every smell. I wonder if that upstairs is having a cinco de mayo party, too, and if they'd be opposed to a sweaty girl in electric blue shorts eating their tacos.

And running on the street! When you hit every WALK sign and make the people in the cars you pass wonder why they aren't running through this bliss with you.
And once I pressed the button and the monitor was black; no red hand or white walking man.
I was stiff, with no one to tell me how to avoid getting creamed by a semi. And I thought about how a portion of our lives is spent in each hemisphere, with the walker and the stopper. But there's some greater portion we spend when we push the button and it is dark, tells us nothing--or, perhaps, "you choose." And we see if there are cars coming and well, we go.
I only wish for the "going" part to be simpler.