Eventually, when you keep running, and running, and running, you hardly notice how fast you're really moving. You've become so used to the world around you being blurry and uncertain that the things you believe are beautiful and worth seeing really are incredibly out of focus. What does that make the things that aren't worth seeing? Are they simply footnotes to our existence? Road kill under our tires? Pavement under our feet? I suppose I don't know, but that's just because I've been running for so long. That running came to an end today when I turned in my final project report. Me and Elizabeth have worked for two semesters on that fucking project. It has served as the bane of our existence for as long as we can remember, but we always have worked so frantically for the end result, and the end result we were expecting never really came. Instead, we kinda concluded that the end result could be achieved in future studies. Is that what research is really like? Inching closer to the answer, yet remaining distant enough so that there's always more to find? I hope not. I really don't want to be continuously occupied. Someday, I really do want to be able to rest from all this. I just figure the resting will happen when I stop running. Today, though, I got to see a little bit of the grass. In focus. In detail. It looked beautiful, a fresh egg cracked from out of a white shell before it hits the red-hot frying pan, inevitably aging and eroding once again into a cooked piece of inanimate colloid, a blur, a spot, a stain, an image of a world taken while running.