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All Are One: A Short Story About the Meaning of Life
That’s what the exploration through San Francisco made me see. That all lives start with the same basic elements of fear, desire, pleasure, impulse, love. That all the changes come later. That like an ocean shoreline pounded by waves for centuries, all people are molded into who they are by life's never-ending cascade of experience.
All people share the same basic elements of the earth. All people yearn for the same fundamental things. All are human. All are the same.
All are one.
All people share the same basic elements of the earth. All people yearn for the same fundamental things. All are human. All are the same.
All are one.
- GenresShort Stories
19 pages, Kindle Edition
Published December 26, 2025
667 people want to read
About the author
William Cooper
5 books340 followersWilliam Cooper is the author of The Trial of Donald H. Rumsfeld: A Novel. An attorney and national columnist, his writings have appeared in hundreds of publications globally including The New York Times, CNN, and Newsweek. He hosts the “Books and More” podcast. Publishers Weekly calls his commentary about American politics “a compelling rallying cry for democratic institutions under threat in America.” Visit him online at will-cooper.com.
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Displaying 1 - 14 of 14 reviews
March 16, 2026
Updating my review to provide the whole book here. Thanks for all the kind words.
ALL ARE ONE: A SHORT STORY ABOUT THE MEANING OF LIFE
If you want rock-hard evidence establishing that every human life is equal—that our differences are merely accidents of context and timing and genetic quirk—then take a long run through a major American city.
I did so recently in San Francisco.
The run began at my hotel, the Hilton on Washington and Kearney. I bounced down the steps at about 8AM, green-and-black Brooks running shoes firmly laced. Under the Hilton’s large cement overhang, an elderly couple gingerly negotiated their way into the back of a yellow cab. The sun tried in vain to break through the clouds and the gray sky illuminated the morning with a familiar San Francisco hue. It was chilly.
The hills ascended into North Beach on my right; the downtown skyline emerged on my left. I ran straight up Kearney before turning left on Jackson.
Chinatown was bursting into full bloom. A chorus of languages—English, Mandarin, others—filled the street. Rounding out the urban symphony were honking horns, hissing brakes, and the incessant thwack, thwack, thwack of drills digging holes into the earth beneath hovering construction cranes.
The kaleidoscopic scene was popping with busy, colorful images, none of which stood still. People of all ages were starting their day: kids in uniforms to school; adults reading smart phones to work; elderly folk in small packs to nowhere specific at all. The sweet smell of dim sum (yes, already) wafted into my nostrils. I made a mental note to return here for lunch.
After a few minutes of warming up, my run was settling into a nice pace.
To my right a man, probably 25, was unlocking the door to a tea shop. The bells on the door jangled pleasantly as he swung it open. His black Nike sweater with a fading white swoosh was slightly oversized. “We have the best tea here,” he said in a thick accent, looking at me with authentic black eyes as his lips bent into a friendly, crooked smile. “The best in the world.”
“Thank you,” I said as I ran by. “Duly noted.”
With no particular route or destination in mind, I moved through the city as spontaneously as a wayward leaf in the wind. Left on Jones, right on Bush.
I passed the Ritz Carlton on my right. It was so quiet it seemed empty. A few blocks ahead I saw The Fairmont. The flags of various countries stood sturdy and proud in the wind, greeting arriving guests.
Sweat was building on my brow. I felt a few droplets running down my back. Endorphins were starting to jiggle and swirl between my ears. The sun was dancing playfully with the clouds, introducing itself and then going back into hiding, again and again.
I ran.
Soon I was on Nob Hill. Peering down California I saw the Bay Bridge stretching across the sun-lit blue water: countless tons of cement and steel and early twentieth-century engineering connecting the city to Oakland and the east-bay burbs. The backlog of cars was thick and slow-moving. Closer, I saw the myopic hustle of the financial district—the host to trillions of dollars in market capitalization, wealth far exceeding most countries on Earth, all within a few square blocks.
Traffic was dense, grinding. Bike messengers blazed down the street, leaving smoke and fire in their tracks. Motor scooters whizzed by. Big buses filled with people herked and jerked up and down steep hills, engines belching, brakes screeching.
I stopped for a drink from my water bottle. It was crisp and refreshing. Two blonde-haired professional men walked past me in a hurry. They were both reading their smartphones but conversing intensely nonetheless. One of them said something about “having to get everything done this quarter.” The other one shook his head grimly and said, “it’s just not possible.” Their clothes were expensive and well-fitting. Bright, puffy, fluorescent Patagonia vests and dark-leather penny loafers. They held large Philz coffees with pride.
A few years out of the Ivy League, I surmised. Or perhaps Berkeley or Stanford? Their faces were clean, young, and burdened (so far) only by trivial and discretionary hardships. They walked in tall, athletic strides. High-IQ winners of the ovarian lottery, nurtured from before birth in families oozing with surplus time, money, and attention. My best guess for their brisk, nervous pace: They were a few minutes late to some meeting (involving slides with snazzy charts and fanciful projections) that would vanish from memory not long after it adjourned.
I considered following them downtown. Instead, I went straight down Bush.
Twenty minutes into my run, my panting was getting deeper and louder. My thighs were starting to tingle. A cold breeze scampered across the sweat building on my face and my ears tickled in the wind.
I ran.
Several blocks later, on the corner of Hyde and Ellis, everything had transformed: The pain. The fear. The want.
The Tenderloin.
Buildings were dilapidated. Streets scarred. Every block or two I saw tired and nervous people in lines, eyes darting about, waiting. I couldn't tell what for.
The air smelled like cigarettes, pot, and feces. The pot predominated.
There was a young man lying on McCallister street, sleeping in the middle of the sidewalk. He had dirty blonde hair, parched lips, and soft stubble on his cheeks. His face was bright red, burnt yet unprotected under the emerging sunlight. He was rail thin. Tall. His clothes were old and haggard. Several sizes too big. One shoe was on his foot, laces untied. The other lay a few feet beside him. On its side, just like him. His mouth was open and his body awkwardly swelled and shrank with each sleeping breath. He had no belongings.
What was his name? I wondered. Who were his parents? What led him here, and what pivot points in his young life, had they gone the other way—left instead of right, yes instead of no, remembered instead of forgotten—would've led him to sleep at the Ritz or the Fairmont, or in a big bed like mine at the Hilton, instead of on this tarred and tormented street?
The new UC California law-school building was under construction on the other side of McCallister. A multi-million-dollar extravaganza of cutting-edge modern architecture emerging oblivious and shame-free from an epicenter of human suffering. A well-nourished redwood, thick and green, rising from a barren desert. The sunlight ricocheted down from six stories of thick steel and glass onto the forgotten in the streets below.
What percentage of the school’s graduates, I wondered, would end up providing legal services to their then-neighbors in the Tenderloin? What percent to the corporations in the financial district?
I turned left on Hyde and right on Market and was soon in the Castro District. The sun had slipped back behind the clouds.
I could physically feel the pulsating decades of persecution and liberation and love. World-alerting history all within a few blocks. Happy people—he, him, she, her, they—smiled, laughed. Couples held hands and walked. A Latino man with glasses and a well-manicured goatee walking a silky brown Doberman gave me a big smile and a head nod. “Hello,” he said, friendly as could be. “How are you?”
“I’m well thank you,” I replied as I jogged by, smiling. I instantly regretted not slowing down to ask how he was.
The sun broke free from the clouds as I jogged past the Castro Theater, casting the neighborhood in a sea of bright light and gentle warmth. I thought perhaps it was a little apology from above, a small reparation for all the discrimination folks there had endured. A few pennies paid on a billion-dollar debt.
I ran.
I soon entered The Mission. A vibrant cacophony of different languages, eerily similar to the linguistic symphony of Chinatown—this one mostly English and Spanish—enlivened the neighborhood. Voluptuous fresh fruit of all colors, shapes, and sizes was for sale on the sidewalk. Spray-paint murals infused ho-dunk buildings with art and genius. I ran past a burrito shop I’d been to before and remembered how good it was. Dim sum now had competition for lunch.
A few blocks later I turned right and went up the hill, towards Golden Gate Park. The Panhandle was a few degrees colder than the Mission, and more gray. But the energy and action was just as palpable.
Bikers and runners were making their way through the windy paths. Sleeping bodies were scattered about here and there. An elderly man in a wheelchair, with a troubled face and unclean clothes, was reading The Chronicle, clasping a rumpled section tightly in both hands. A gust of wind picked up the other sections and flung them off his lap and onto the ground and they fluttered away. The man was deeply upset, his mouth opening and closing frantically and saying “No! No!” in rising decibels, as if a thief was running off with a cherished family heirloom. A kind woman somewhere near middle age grabbed the paper and brought it back to him. Accepting it with shaking hands, he nodded at her and smiled, his entire face tightening into a ball of wrinkles surrounding two dark and shining eyes.
As I crossed Kezar and entered the park I saw a group of schoolchildren walking in a bright-green field with their teachers. I wondered which ones would work downtown, which would end up in the Tenderloin, and what twists of fate—a gust of wind carrying both soft leaves and hard stones—would do the sorting.
I circled around the park and turned left on Fillmore. After 45 minutes of running, my tee shirt was drenched in sweat. I was picking up steam, though.
After a long and steady climb uphill, I entered Pacific Heights. The houses were stunning. Thick red brick. Tall white columns. Flush green gardens. On Broadway, I came upon Billionaires’ Row and its towering castles lined up side by side. Windfalls of wealth and privilege raining down profusely on the .00001 percent.
An oddity struck me: Parked in front of these majestic homes were dingy and dented cars.
Hmmmm.
Ah, yes, I quickly realized: The Help. Teams of the less fortunate assembled below minimum wage to soften the edges of life for the filthy rich, at least those edges that could be softened. I thought about the stunning tragedy of this inequality: A rounding error in the forgotten bank account of someone in Pacific Heights could transform the lives of every desolate, underprivileged soul I had encountered on my run.
But why? Why would that be? Why would society allow resources that could alleviate so much suffering to sit idle? Ignored. Wasted. The medicine laughing at the affliction from afar.
Nancy Pelosi’s mansion was on my right, and I remembered when her husband was assaulted by an intruder there. News of that assault reverberated around the globe instantaneously. All the other assaults in the city that day were ignored, as always … tragic little trees falling silently, one after another, in the woods.
I walked a few blocks, my thighs starting to tingle and wear from the unforgiving city pavement, my lower back starting to ache.
I looked up. The water of the bay appeared, wrapping itself around the perimeter of the city. It was a gorgeous panorama view that infused me with energy and adrenaline.
I stopped and stared.
The same sunlight that sizzled on that poor boy’s face danced atop the sparkling waves. The same wind that blew away the old man's newspaper fed the sails of the dozen or so boats gliding across the water. The same day that was emerging, minute by minute—a dizzying medley of joy and sorrow and happiness and anxiety and comfort and fear—kept moving, time marching forward inexorably for everyone, yet experience unfolding so differently depending on where you were, on who you were.
I made my way down the hill into the Marina and turned right on Union. Coffee shops overflowed with scorching-hot servings and gossipy chatter. Fancy little dogs chirped and peed. Hungover twentysomethings ambled to the gym in two-hundred-dollar exercise pants. Teslas floated and purred.
I ran.
I turned left on Van Ness and soon entered Fisherman's Wharf. The sun had taken command of the sky. Only a thin cloud or two remained. The waves crashed loudly into the shore. Top hits played from speakers strategically connected to light posts. Hot cocoa and cinnamon buns gave the air a sweet, sugary, corporate scent. I licked my lips and swallowed some saliva.
I was losing steam, tired and achy from the now-90-minute run. Hungry.
Yet another loud and vibrant mixture of languages filled the streets, just like Chinatown and the Mission. This time, however, the languages were more diverse and plentiful. People from all over the world were taking pictures and pointing at things and smiling and carrying big plastic bags of souvenirs that would need to be crammed into already full suitcases. All of these tourists had a common denominator: They could afford to come to San Francisco from their home countries. They were not representative of the whole. Their own countries and cities had their own stratified population, and these tourists were at (or near) the top.
In their pockets was more money than all the people who live in the Tenderloin.
Combined.
Moving slowly in a haggard jog I wrapped around Embarcadero for several blocks and then up into North Beach. I finished off my water and threw the bottle into a recycling bin.
When I reached Columbus I started to walk. I had run for almost two hours straight. Not bad, I thought.
After a few blocks the Transamerica Pyramid eased into view up ahead—the pointed tip growing slightly larger with each step. Cars whizzed by, coffee drinkers sitting at outside tables moved on to their second and third espressos. Some people were in a hurry. Some—a happier group, it seemed—appeared to have nowhere to go at all. Sweating waiters with big smiles and pot bellies and white towels hanging from their waists carried steaming plates that made friendly crackles when they hit the tables.
I walked.
To my left I saw the strip clubs on Broadway Street—the same street home to Billionaires’ Row, now a mile or two to my right. The sign bulbs that flashed brightly at night (Condor Club, Deja Vu Centerfolds) looked dingy and sad, unlit and dusty in the mid-morning light.
I thought about how the vulnerable young people who performed there—so young, so vulnerable—slogged through life without the right family or role models or upbringing. Or perhaps they had all of those things but their brain didn’t work right. Or perhaps something really bad happened to them and they never found the middle of the road again. Or perhaps there was no coherent explanation for why they fell into the hole that engulfed them.
Their daily exploitation was just a few hours away, about the same time their more-fortunate peers—those who won the ovarian lottery instead of losing it—would be leaving the office for team-building happy hours or top-shelf exercise classes. Selectively chosen Instagram posts would capture the delight either way.
A few minutes later, finally, I saw my hotel, the place where it all started just over two hours before. The hotel was exactly the same but something fundamental had changed. Within me.
I thought of the old TS Elliott poem about knowing a place for the first time when you come back to it:
“We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.”
When I left on my run just over two hours before, my hotel was, well, a hotel. Brick. Mortar. Beds. Showers. Annoying fees. Wake-up calls. It was where I was and therefore it was the center of the universe.
When I returned it was my little place in this big city, in this huge world. Seeing, hearing, feeling all these people in one fell swoop, in one single city, on one solitary run, jolted my paradigm. Everything had inverted: instead of being the center of the universe I became a single star in a giant constellation. Up close the stars might look different. But from any distance they are the same shape, shining with equal brightness.
Every minute of human experience is a confluence of millions of inheritances, some obvious, some subtle, all of them at their core outside of our control. The boy sleeping on the street did not choose to be homeless. The rich kids in the Financial District did not earn their privileged wombs. The old man with the newspaper did not want to live out his years in a wheelchair.
This doesn’t negate the virtue of discipline and effort, but it means good role models instill the value of hard work. This doesn’t condone an unhealthy lifestyle, but it means the habits we have grow in the soil we inherit. This doesn't diminish the high importance of morality, but it means the thin line between guilt and innocence is drawn in sand infused with ambiguity and human context.
That’s what the exploration through San Francisco made me see. That all lives start with the same basic elements of humanity: fear, desire, pleasure, impulse, love. That all the changes come later. That like an ocean shoreline pounded by waves for centuries, all people are molded into who they are by life’s never-ending cascade of experience.
All people share the same basic elements of the earth. All people yearn for the same fundamental things. All are human. All are the same.
All are one.
ALL ARE ONE: A SHORT STORY ABOUT THE MEANING OF LIFE
If you want rock-hard evidence establishing that every human life is equal—that our differences are merely accidents of context and timing and genetic quirk—then take a long run through a major American city.
I did so recently in San Francisco.
The run began at my hotel, the Hilton on Washington and Kearney. I bounced down the steps at about 8AM, green-and-black Brooks running shoes firmly laced. Under the Hilton’s large cement overhang, an elderly couple gingerly negotiated their way into the back of a yellow cab. The sun tried in vain to break through the clouds and the gray sky illuminated the morning with a familiar San Francisco hue. It was chilly.
The hills ascended into North Beach on my right; the downtown skyline emerged on my left. I ran straight up Kearney before turning left on Jackson.
Chinatown was bursting into full bloom. A chorus of languages—English, Mandarin, others—filled the street. Rounding out the urban symphony were honking horns, hissing brakes, and the incessant thwack, thwack, thwack of drills digging holes into the earth beneath hovering construction cranes.
The kaleidoscopic scene was popping with busy, colorful images, none of which stood still. People of all ages were starting their day: kids in uniforms to school; adults reading smart phones to work; elderly folk in small packs to nowhere specific at all. The sweet smell of dim sum (yes, already) wafted into my nostrils. I made a mental note to return here for lunch.
After a few minutes of warming up, my run was settling into a nice pace.
To my right a man, probably 25, was unlocking the door to a tea shop. The bells on the door jangled pleasantly as he swung it open. His black Nike sweater with a fading white swoosh was slightly oversized. “We have the best tea here,” he said in a thick accent, looking at me with authentic black eyes as his lips bent into a friendly, crooked smile. “The best in the world.”
“Thank you,” I said as I ran by. “Duly noted.”
With no particular route or destination in mind, I moved through the city as spontaneously as a wayward leaf in the wind. Left on Jones, right on Bush.
I passed the Ritz Carlton on my right. It was so quiet it seemed empty. A few blocks ahead I saw The Fairmont. The flags of various countries stood sturdy and proud in the wind, greeting arriving guests.
Sweat was building on my brow. I felt a few droplets running down my back. Endorphins were starting to jiggle and swirl between my ears. The sun was dancing playfully with the clouds, introducing itself and then going back into hiding, again and again.
I ran.
Soon I was on Nob Hill. Peering down California I saw the Bay Bridge stretching across the sun-lit blue water: countless tons of cement and steel and early twentieth-century engineering connecting the city to Oakland and the east-bay burbs. The backlog of cars was thick and slow-moving. Closer, I saw the myopic hustle of the financial district—the host to trillions of dollars in market capitalization, wealth far exceeding most countries on Earth, all within a few square blocks.
Traffic was dense, grinding. Bike messengers blazed down the street, leaving smoke and fire in their tracks. Motor scooters whizzed by. Big buses filled with people herked and jerked up and down steep hills, engines belching, brakes screeching.
I stopped for a drink from my water bottle. It was crisp and refreshing. Two blonde-haired professional men walked past me in a hurry. They were both reading their smartphones but conversing intensely nonetheless. One of them said something about “having to get everything done this quarter.” The other one shook his head grimly and said, “it’s just not possible.” Their clothes were expensive and well-fitting. Bright, puffy, fluorescent Patagonia vests and dark-leather penny loafers. They held large Philz coffees with pride.
A few years out of the Ivy League, I surmised. Or perhaps Berkeley or Stanford? Their faces were clean, young, and burdened (so far) only by trivial and discretionary hardships. They walked in tall, athletic strides. High-IQ winners of the ovarian lottery, nurtured from before birth in families oozing with surplus time, money, and attention. My best guess for their brisk, nervous pace: They were a few minutes late to some meeting (involving slides with snazzy charts and fanciful projections) that would vanish from memory not long after it adjourned.
I considered following them downtown. Instead, I went straight down Bush.
Twenty minutes into my run, my panting was getting deeper and louder. My thighs were starting to tingle. A cold breeze scampered across the sweat building on my face and my ears tickled in the wind.
I ran.
Several blocks later, on the corner of Hyde and Ellis, everything had transformed: The pain. The fear. The want.
The Tenderloin.
Buildings were dilapidated. Streets scarred. Every block or two I saw tired and nervous people in lines, eyes darting about, waiting. I couldn't tell what for.
The air smelled like cigarettes, pot, and feces. The pot predominated.
There was a young man lying on McCallister street, sleeping in the middle of the sidewalk. He had dirty blonde hair, parched lips, and soft stubble on his cheeks. His face was bright red, burnt yet unprotected under the emerging sunlight. He was rail thin. Tall. His clothes were old and haggard. Several sizes too big. One shoe was on his foot, laces untied. The other lay a few feet beside him. On its side, just like him. His mouth was open and his body awkwardly swelled and shrank with each sleeping breath. He had no belongings.
What was his name? I wondered. Who were his parents? What led him here, and what pivot points in his young life, had they gone the other way—left instead of right, yes instead of no, remembered instead of forgotten—would've led him to sleep at the Ritz or the Fairmont, or in a big bed like mine at the Hilton, instead of on this tarred and tormented street?
The new UC California law-school building was under construction on the other side of McCallister. A multi-million-dollar extravaganza of cutting-edge modern architecture emerging oblivious and shame-free from an epicenter of human suffering. A well-nourished redwood, thick and green, rising from a barren desert. The sunlight ricocheted down from six stories of thick steel and glass onto the forgotten in the streets below.
What percentage of the school’s graduates, I wondered, would end up providing legal services to their then-neighbors in the Tenderloin? What percent to the corporations in the financial district?
I turned left on Hyde and right on Market and was soon in the Castro District. The sun had slipped back behind the clouds.
I could physically feel the pulsating decades of persecution and liberation and love. World-alerting history all within a few blocks. Happy people—he, him, she, her, they—smiled, laughed. Couples held hands and walked. A Latino man with glasses and a well-manicured goatee walking a silky brown Doberman gave me a big smile and a head nod. “Hello,” he said, friendly as could be. “How are you?”
“I’m well thank you,” I replied as I jogged by, smiling. I instantly regretted not slowing down to ask how he was.
The sun broke free from the clouds as I jogged past the Castro Theater, casting the neighborhood in a sea of bright light and gentle warmth. I thought perhaps it was a little apology from above, a small reparation for all the discrimination folks there had endured. A few pennies paid on a billion-dollar debt.
I ran.
I soon entered The Mission. A vibrant cacophony of different languages, eerily similar to the linguistic symphony of Chinatown—this one mostly English and Spanish—enlivened the neighborhood. Voluptuous fresh fruit of all colors, shapes, and sizes was for sale on the sidewalk. Spray-paint murals infused ho-dunk buildings with art and genius. I ran past a burrito shop I’d been to before and remembered how good it was. Dim sum now had competition for lunch.
A few blocks later I turned right and went up the hill, towards Golden Gate Park. The Panhandle was a few degrees colder than the Mission, and more gray. But the energy and action was just as palpable.
Bikers and runners were making their way through the windy paths. Sleeping bodies were scattered about here and there. An elderly man in a wheelchair, with a troubled face and unclean clothes, was reading The Chronicle, clasping a rumpled section tightly in both hands. A gust of wind picked up the other sections and flung them off his lap and onto the ground and they fluttered away. The man was deeply upset, his mouth opening and closing frantically and saying “No! No!” in rising decibels, as if a thief was running off with a cherished family heirloom. A kind woman somewhere near middle age grabbed the paper and brought it back to him. Accepting it with shaking hands, he nodded at her and smiled, his entire face tightening into a ball of wrinkles surrounding two dark and shining eyes.
As I crossed Kezar and entered the park I saw a group of schoolchildren walking in a bright-green field with their teachers. I wondered which ones would work downtown, which would end up in the Tenderloin, and what twists of fate—a gust of wind carrying both soft leaves and hard stones—would do the sorting.
I circled around the park and turned left on Fillmore. After 45 minutes of running, my tee shirt was drenched in sweat. I was picking up steam, though.
After a long and steady climb uphill, I entered Pacific Heights. The houses were stunning. Thick red brick. Tall white columns. Flush green gardens. On Broadway, I came upon Billionaires’ Row and its towering castles lined up side by side. Windfalls of wealth and privilege raining down profusely on the .00001 percent.
An oddity struck me: Parked in front of these majestic homes were dingy and dented cars.
Hmmmm.
Ah, yes, I quickly realized: The Help. Teams of the less fortunate assembled below minimum wage to soften the edges of life for the filthy rich, at least those edges that could be softened. I thought about the stunning tragedy of this inequality: A rounding error in the forgotten bank account of someone in Pacific Heights could transform the lives of every desolate, underprivileged soul I had encountered on my run.
But why? Why would that be? Why would society allow resources that could alleviate so much suffering to sit idle? Ignored. Wasted. The medicine laughing at the affliction from afar.
Nancy Pelosi’s mansion was on my right, and I remembered when her husband was assaulted by an intruder there. News of that assault reverberated around the globe instantaneously. All the other assaults in the city that day were ignored, as always … tragic little trees falling silently, one after another, in the woods.
I walked a few blocks, my thighs starting to tingle and wear from the unforgiving city pavement, my lower back starting to ache.
I looked up. The water of the bay appeared, wrapping itself around the perimeter of the city. It was a gorgeous panorama view that infused me with energy and adrenaline.
I stopped and stared.
The same sunlight that sizzled on that poor boy’s face danced atop the sparkling waves. The same wind that blew away the old man's newspaper fed the sails of the dozen or so boats gliding across the water. The same day that was emerging, minute by minute—a dizzying medley of joy and sorrow and happiness and anxiety and comfort and fear—kept moving, time marching forward inexorably for everyone, yet experience unfolding so differently depending on where you were, on who you were.
I made my way down the hill into the Marina and turned right on Union. Coffee shops overflowed with scorching-hot servings and gossipy chatter. Fancy little dogs chirped and peed. Hungover twentysomethings ambled to the gym in two-hundred-dollar exercise pants. Teslas floated and purred.
I ran.
I turned left on Van Ness and soon entered Fisherman's Wharf. The sun had taken command of the sky. Only a thin cloud or two remained. The waves crashed loudly into the shore. Top hits played from speakers strategically connected to light posts. Hot cocoa and cinnamon buns gave the air a sweet, sugary, corporate scent. I licked my lips and swallowed some saliva.
I was losing steam, tired and achy from the now-90-minute run. Hungry.
Yet another loud and vibrant mixture of languages filled the streets, just like Chinatown and the Mission. This time, however, the languages were more diverse and plentiful. People from all over the world were taking pictures and pointing at things and smiling and carrying big plastic bags of souvenirs that would need to be crammed into already full suitcases. All of these tourists had a common denominator: They could afford to come to San Francisco from their home countries. They were not representative of the whole. Their own countries and cities had their own stratified population, and these tourists were at (or near) the top.
In their pockets was more money than all the people who live in the Tenderloin.
Combined.
Moving slowly in a haggard jog I wrapped around Embarcadero for several blocks and then up into North Beach. I finished off my water and threw the bottle into a recycling bin.
When I reached Columbus I started to walk. I had run for almost two hours straight. Not bad, I thought.
After a few blocks the Transamerica Pyramid eased into view up ahead—the pointed tip growing slightly larger with each step. Cars whizzed by, coffee drinkers sitting at outside tables moved on to their second and third espressos. Some people were in a hurry. Some—a happier group, it seemed—appeared to have nowhere to go at all. Sweating waiters with big smiles and pot bellies and white towels hanging from their waists carried steaming plates that made friendly crackles when they hit the tables.
I walked.
To my left I saw the strip clubs on Broadway Street—the same street home to Billionaires’ Row, now a mile or two to my right. The sign bulbs that flashed brightly at night (Condor Club, Deja Vu Centerfolds) looked dingy and sad, unlit and dusty in the mid-morning light.
I thought about how the vulnerable young people who performed there—so young, so vulnerable—slogged through life without the right family or role models or upbringing. Or perhaps they had all of those things but their brain didn’t work right. Or perhaps something really bad happened to them and they never found the middle of the road again. Or perhaps there was no coherent explanation for why they fell into the hole that engulfed them.
Their daily exploitation was just a few hours away, about the same time their more-fortunate peers—those who won the ovarian lottery instead of losing it—would be leaving the office for team-building happy hours or top-shelf exercise classes. Selectively chosen Instagram posts would capture the delight either way.
A few minutes later, finally, I saw my hotel, the place where it all started just over two hours before. The hotel was exactly the same but something fundamental had changed. Within me.
I thought of the old TS Elliott poem about knowing a place for the first time when you come back to it:
“We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.”
When I left on my run just over two hours before, my hotel was, well, a hotel. Brick. Mortar. Beds. Showers. Annoying fees. Wake-up calls. It was where I was and therefore it was the center of the universe.
When I returned it was my little place in this big city, in this huge world. Seeing, hearing, feeling all these people in one fell swoop, in one single city, on one solitary run, jolted my paradigm. Everything had inverted: instead of being the center of the universe I became a single star in a giant constellation. Up close the stars might look different. But from any distance they are the same shape, shining with equal brightness.
Every minute of human experience is a confluence of millions of inheritances, some obvious, some subtle, all of them at their core outside of our control. The boy sleeping on the street did not choose to be homeless. The rich kids in the Financial District did not earn their privileged wombs. The old man with the newspaper did not want to live out his years in a wheelchair.
This doesn’t negate the virtue of discipline and effort, but it means good role models instill the value of hard work. This doesn’t condone an unhealthy lifestyle, but it means the habits we have grow in the soil we inherit. This doesn't diminish the high importance of morality, but it means the thin line between guilt and innocence is drawn in sand infused with ambiguity and human context.
That’s what the exploration through San Francisco made me see. That all lives start with the same basic elements of humanity: fear, desire, pleasure, impulse, love. That all the changes come later. That like an ocean shoreline pounded by waves for centuries, all people are molded into who they are by life’s never-ending cascade of experience.
All people share the same basic elements of the earth. All people yearn for the same fundamental things. All are human. All are the same.
All are one.
January 13, 2026
"Every minute of human experience is a confluence of millions of inheritances, some obvious, some subtle, all of them at their core outside of our control."
A run through various districts in San Francisco gives us this thoughtful, little story, reflections on life and the simple, undeniable fact that we the human family are all one, we share the same hopes and dreams regardless of where we are in life. "That all lives start with the same basic elements of humanity: fear, desire, pleasure, impulse, love."
A run through various districts in San Francisco gives us this thoughtful, little story, reflections on life and the simple, undeniable fact that we the human family are all one, we share the same hopes and dreams regardless of where we are in life. "That all lives start with the same basic elements of humanity: fear, desire, pleasure, impulse, love."
February 17, 2026
This quickly-read short story will stay with readers long after the brief amount of time it takes to read it. I think of this more of a memoir rather than a short story. It is personal, but unlike a memoir it's not about the author - but about what he observes during a two-hour run/walk through the streets of San Francisco and the various residential/business areas.
It provokes his thoughts on humanity, our differences and similarities, and the meaning of life. Very thought-provoking and well said.
It provokes his thoughts on humanity, our differences and similarities, and the meaning of life. Very thought-provoking and well said.
January 19, 2026
Beautiful
I loved it . A short story that is more rich and fulll than most novels . I am so glad he wrote this experience down . I wish someone had told me this story when I was young and maybe it wouldn't have taken so long for my awakening . it should be one mandatory reading for every child before starting high school with lots of lesson plans,made around it.
I loved it . A short story that is more rich and fulll than most novels . I am so glad he wrote this experience down . I wish someone had told me this story when I was young and maybe it wouldn't have taken so long for my awakening . it should be one mandatory reading for every child before starting high school with lots of lesson plans,made around it.
January 12, 2026
Excellent short read on how all of us are the same in our differences because we, each and every one of us, are human.
The author takes a run around the various districts of San Francisco. He observes in his running that neighborhoods may be culturally, economically or business different. But as he observes the people he concludes that as humans we start the same, our life experiences may change and mold us differently. But we all yearn for the same things: love, dignity, respect, hope, pleasure to name but a few.
As I read this 19 page reflection, I thought about Frankel’s Man Search for Meaning. In the midst of grave destruction of personhood under the Nazis, men who hoped and dreamed survived. I think this little book shows that as well. And this is much needed in these dark times
I would like to thank the author for allowing me to read this book. It’s a good book for daily reflection.
The author takes a run around the various districts of San Francisco. He observes in his running that neighborhoods may be culturally, economically or business different. But as he observes the people he concludes that as humans we start the same, our life experiences may change and mold us differently. But we all yearn for the same things: love, dignity, respect, hope, pleasure to name but a few.
As I read this 19 page reflection, I thought about Frankel’s Man Search for Meaning. In the midst of grave destruction of personhood under the Nazis, men who hoped and dreamed survived. I think this little book shows that as well. And this is much needed in these dark times
I would like to thank the author for allowing me to read this book. It’s a good book for daily reflection.
March 16, 2026
This author does a beautiful job of taking you on his run, you experience the different lives that everyone is living through the author's eyes. It feels like you are the one running through the city. Very descriptive and makes you feel so many emotions while looking at the various lives that others lives.
January 16, 2026
William Cooper takes us on a run through San Francisco and contemplates the different neighborhoods and individuals he interacts with in this philosophical short story. We are all the same, but ended up where we are through many different factors and circumstances. I give Bill courage for running through the streets of San Francisco and sharing his observations with us.
March 17, 2026
This short story takes us for a run with the author through San Francisco.
I relished getting a flavour of different areas of the city as he ran. I've never been there, but like most people I've gathered pictures in my mind of what the city is like, and this story was a celebration of its buildings, its landscapes and its inhabitants.... We also get a sense of the author running, which gives energy to the story.
This is also a story about how we are all born into lives blessed or burdened with good or bad fortune. On the run Cooper describes two young men from the top of the hierarchy, "They walked in tall, athletic strides. High-IQ winners of the ovarian lottery, nurtured from before birth in families oozing with surplus time, money, and attention." Then later as he runs through the Tenderloin district he describes someone sleeping rough on the pavement. "What was his name? I wondered. Who were his parents? What led him here, and what pivot points in his young life, had they gone the other way—left instead of right, yes instead of no, remembered instead of forgotten—would've led him to sleep at the Ritz or the Fairmont, or in a big bed like mine at the Hilton, instead of on this tarred and tormented street?"
I found this an unusual and enjoyable read, and I liked the way it stresses the part that good or bad fortune plays in our lives. It can be read here:
https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
I relished getting a flavour of different areas of the city as he ran. I've never been there, but like most people I've gathered pictures in my mind of what the city is like, and this story was a celebration of its buildings, its landscapes and its inhabitants.... We also get a sense of the author running, which gives energy to the story.
This is also a story about how we are all born into lives blessed or burdened with good or bad fortune. On the run Cooper describes two young men from the top of the hierarchy, "They walked in tall, athletic strides. High-IQ winners of the ovarian lottery, nurtured from before birth in families oozing with surplus time, money, and attention." Then later as he runs through the Tenderloin district he describes someone sleeping rough on the pavement. "What was his name? I wondered. Who were his parents? What led him here, and what pivot points in his young life, had they gone the other way—left instead of right, yes instead of no, remembered instead of forgotten—would've led him to sleep at the Ritz or the Fairmont, or in a big bed like mine at the Hilton, instead of on this tarred and tormented street?"
I found this an unusual and enjoyable read, and I liked the way it stresses the part that good or bad fortune plays in our lives. It can be read here:
https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
March 16, 2026
Great read!
I very unexpectedly loved this. It's a worthy quick read that really hits home, especially today. The inner dialog while doing this run is very much something I do while walking but I never considered putting it in writing. Great idea!
I very unexpectedly loved this. It's a worthy quick read that really hits home, especially today. The inner dialog while doing this run is very much something I do while walking but I never considered putting it in writing. Great idea!
March 17, 2026
A quick short story filled with the author's perspective on humanity as he embarks on a two-hour run through the city of San Francisco. Such vivid detail in his writing style! Thank you to the author, William Cooper, for posting this short story in Gooodreads!
January 12, 2026
A short but inspiring book.
"All people share the same basic elements of the earth. All people yearn for the same fundamental things. All are human. All are the same." Loc 242
"All people share the same basic elements of the earth. All people yearn for the same fundamental things. All are human. All are the same." Loc 242
January 19, 2026
A stunning description of a run through san francisco. So much packed into this wonderful little book.
February 27, 2026
We are all the same in many ways.
A great short story about us all being the same, we all eat,drink and take a lot of things for granted. Loved this book.
A great short story about us all being the same, we all eat,drink and take a lot of things for granted. Loved this book.
March 25, 2026
boring and uninteresting
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