Jogging, I Believe They Call

It's The Only Thing That Keeps Me Going These Days, Travelling. Changes Of Scene, Changes Of Faces

Jogging, I Believe They Call It. It Seems To Be An Epidemic Psychological Illness Afflicting Americans These Days. A Form Of Masochism, Like The Flagellantes In The Middle Ages.

Language Is The Net That Holds Thought Trapped Within A Particular Culture. But If One Could Only Strike The Ball With Sufficient Force, With Perfect Timing, It Would Perhaps Break Through The Netting, Continue On Its Course, Never Fall To Earth, But Go Into Orbit Around The World.

Perhaps That's What We're All Looking For - Desire Undiluted By Habit.

Whhheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! The Scream Of Jet Engines Rises To A Crescendo On The Runways Of The World. Every Second, Somewhere Or Other, A Plane Touches Down, With A Puff Of Smoke From Scorched Tyre Rubber, Or Rises In The Air, Leaving A Smear Of Black Fumes Dissolving In Its Wake. From Space, The Earth Might Look To A Fanciful Eye Like A Huge Carousel, With Planes Instead Of Horses Spinning Round Its Circumference, Up And Down, Up And Down. Whhheeeeeeeeeee!