The writer's run

[dotinthesky]

He drags himself to the park despite the dark and the cold, despite the growing itch in his throat. He’s going to run, goddammit, even if it means extra doses of flu medicine later on.

A thin white mist hangs over the grass; sunlight slowly breaks through the leaves. His fingers are frozen around his flat’s keys, but the music is upbeat and his feet won’t stop.

As the sun rises, cyclists and joggers stop to take pictures. He finishes his run with a stretch, red leaves all around him. The mist is now like a cloud dissipating under light.