The loop in Central Park is almost exactly six miles. The rain came like a monsoon, and I ran in the dusk until my glasses were too wet to see, my clothes were naught but added weight, holding pints of water, surely, and it was good. Not fast, but consistent. Running from, to, through, letting the rain take everything clinging to me for its own. Things not mine. Things I have no desire to keep. Let the rain do what it will, it knows better than me.