Yesterday I went for a run in the afternoon. I descended the stairs until I reached the back of the train station, and then stopped next to that bio-healthy-green supermarket in the corner. I bought a good bread there the other day, made from spelt flour, although I think that its over-healthy characteristics are disrupting my biological rhythm (i.e. my guts). Anyhow, I decided to start there: I turned the music on, and ran. I passed through the street of the old Grémio lisbonense in order to avoid the tourists at Rua Augusta. When I reached the end of the street I turned left and then right, passing below the arch of Praça do Comércio, and then going on the direction of the sea. I was running on a good pace, reaching an average of 5,33 minutes per kilometer. Then I passed Cais do Sodré, and I started to wonder a bit, thinking about that German show on Netflix that I watched while on the plane to London, where kids time-travel and everyone has a secret and sleeps or hates / loves another person to death. Germans are good at being complicated, they have a strange capacity to hold a lot of emotions inside. Then I thought that I’m feeling exhausted on the inside, and that I probably enjoy living in this kind of tension where I’m doing a lot of things and feel that I’m crazy. Being in this place, and then in that place, teaching and lawyering and writing, and then running. The Boss sings into my hears that “Everybody has a hungry heart”, and I think that says it all. I remembered listening to Darnielle the other day, singing with Colbert that epic anthem of “I’m gonna make it through this year, if it kills me”, and laughing inside. I was now returning to Praça de Comércio, going the whole way back until reaching the Grémio and arriving at Rossio, where I stopped. I climbed the stairs and passed by the restaurants full of tourists drinking large glasses of beer and covered with blankets. I was sweating, in the middle of the immense movement of people climbing and descending stairs, speaking I don’t know how many languages, thinking that I could join them and just sit in one of these tables, like a tourist, but one that lives in the neighborhood. Later on I went to Marvila to have a birthday drink with a birthday friend (and other friends). The Uber dropped me in front of an evangelical church; I found it funny, since my birthday friend’s father is an evangelical pastor. The birthday bar was across the street, in this cool place that was not very evangelical. I then drank and talked with people and came back home early and fell asleep in the couch. I thought, before closing my eyes, that you never know how good a couch is until you sleep in it. I woke three hours later, got up and went to bed, but it’s fine. I felt good. It’s a very good couch. Like the Purple Mountains’ record that I’m currently listening to is a very good record. Like life, its hopes, and perspectives, are good. But I have to tell you, dear self: I can’t wait to go on holidays and lay myself in a south Asian beach with Ultra by my side and just drink Margaritas and read Proust. Or something similar.