Rain all night, and dreams. A dream of running through woods, bewildering until I recognized hunters' stands and knew it was the first mile of the Mason-Dixon line on the way to the house, the first house in SE Pennsylvania. Oh, I was there because we had been lamenting our abandonment of the little gnarled solitary tree with wormy yellow apples, the last of an orchard, in the park just south in Delaware. There was never such applesauce and we will never have the right ingredient again. Oh no! Wake up, I said, that's not where you run now. Where do you run now? Then I remembered back when the only runners on the Santa Monica Palisades at odd hours (not before or after work, not noon) might be me and Bruce Dern, who started from home, alone, up off San Vicente, and the great Tyler Horne, who let his publicist keep pace with him. What if you could program your dreams? Tonight I am healthy enough to risk a run around the Imperial Palace. Tonight I deserve a run in the hills above Menaggio. Tonight I am escaping the Hemingway smokers by running along a green rivulet at Schruns. Tomorrow night . . . .
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