Marathon.

Do you know the feeling when you run and you are already tired and gasping for breath? Of course you do. Hundreds, no, thousands of needles are piercing your lungs; your body begs you to stop. But you don't stop. It hurts, but it will hurt even more if you do. Thousands of knives will readily cut into your muscles the moment you halt. And as if that is not enough, you'll have to face the breath of the cold December wind  all by yourself: he is busy saying goodbye to someone else. So you go on. Your feet wearily bounce off the pavement, with only your shoes to keep them from going faster. Suddenly you feel you have stopped. You seem to have run into something. Something pretty. You don't really see it; your shoes hurt and you are not paying attention. Reality check: you paid so much for those shoes. You tie the strings around your wrists. Tight and blue, so the blood cannot escape. This is the moment when your body catches up with your soul; your tired, naked skull ricochets against the wall and bounces off your bare feet. You chant words you don't understand. But it is too late.

And then you realise that climbing the second storey of the bus was perhaps a bit too adventurous. But you know you will survive. You always do.