Location: Melbourne, Australia

Date: January 6th, 2025

A Note To The Runners: ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Get my book here.⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠

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⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Buy me a coffee here: ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ My go-to order is a long black.

⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Notes Running⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠

Poem:

Sundays are for snoozing,
for lazing,
for ignoring,
for eating.
Mine are for running,
for devouring,
for sunsetting,
for planning.
Your Sundays are sweet,
and savoury,
and sour,
and subtle.
Mine are rolling,
and roaring,
and ramshackle,
and rambunctious.
But sometimes,
I want a Sunday that feels,
boring,
and slow,
and cozy,
and long.
I want a Sunday that smells like
cinnamon flavoured steel cut oats,
a wet towel dried with yesterday’s scallops,
hot chips and crunchy battered fish,
And of course, lilac skies with gently perfumed cotton fleece.
Yet, I had a Sunday,
That ached and groaned,
it sweated and stumbled,
indulged and overindexed,
and it burned,
my bare skin.
Sunday’s come quickly,
and leave promptly.
I just want a Sunday for snoozing.