Pete walks down the stairs as I walk up to Shelter Island, sweating in red sweatshirt with iPod in hand. "I always see you running," he says. "What are you running from?"
"Life," I say with a grin.
Not this year.
I think I would be better off for spending more nights with golden moon over soft lapping waters as our feet touch rocks. I would be better off writing. And I am.
Oh, and we're going: Dublin, Kerry, London. ACLs and Mexico told me to take all risks. It'll be a whirlwind and I'll fear the plane until it starts racing.
And I feel the ecstasy I never thought I'd feel again. How about that?
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