Went to the bookstore for a study Bible, came home with a book of poetry by Charles Bukowski.
At the crest of the last hill, the lights of cars on the highway tell me another night run is over. The sounds of my last few steps are drowned by the hiss and whine of tires on wet asphalt. I pause at the last turn to look back—some nights I feel like I have left something out there, never quite feeling what it is or if leaving it was intentional. Tomorrow is another day, and I will go back to make sure it is still there.”
—John Morelock, Run Gently Out There