Right this moment, I wish my body could feel like it did between the age of 14 and 42.

Those were the good old days. I was short but played games well. I ran. And ran. And really ran to stay sane. I ran to work, ran marathons, ran home from hospital visits, Ravens games, and anything from which I could run.

Of course, in all of that, from 14 to 42, I was a mental mess. So, let me assess my lifetime-status as a mental mess, which, I hope enables other mental messes to feel as if they too can somehow produce books and art and plays despite a mind like mashed potatoes, a voice like a squeaking balloon and a body not so dissimilar from a mid-sized res-dog.

No matter, to get that young body back. To run. I miss it.