I’m running and running, down streets and through alleyways, as fast as I can. I’m running out of breath.
And there’s this man who is right there, constantly. He’s just walking. The faster I run, he just walks, catching up to me with ease.
I hop a fence; I turn a corner; I fly past onlookers; I step on homeless people passed out in the trash; I venture out into the middle of the road and bolt like lightning. Then I turn around, and there he is, walking at a brisk pace.
His eyes are alive, an icy fire. His hands are hidden within the pockets of a long black trench coat. His boots make the eeriest clopping sound. And his eyes are alive, an icy fire.
Who is he? Is he me?