To run and run and run and run.
To fly across sun-drenched sand,
past sage and cacti, lizard and snake.

Gravel roads or sand roads,
half roads or no roads at all.
All blur as my feet flash by.

Sweat beads up and start to run,
but never reaches its goal.
The sun takes it, bakes it, 
and leaves a crust of salt.

And I run.

My near-naked body embraces the sun,
the heat, the dryness. Chest and arms,
back and buttocks, all drink in the glorious
sunlight, revel in its warmth, its power

And still I run.

I fly. My feet barely reach the sand.
I run too swiftly to leave footprints. 
I run.

Hills fall to me without resistance.
Without struggle. 
I hit them, attack their slopes,
charge up them, fly up them
as if I were flying down instead.

I am master of the desert, happy to run.
Happy to sweat. Happy to be. Happy to be happy.

I am smooth, I am sleek, I am muscle and power. 
My limbs are flawless extension of my soul. 
All bound and trained and trimmed for one purpose -- to run.

Running is life, and life is sex, and sex is running. 
I am sex. All I think of is sex and running.

My thong keeps me from bouncing.
It also keeps me hard and aware of my desire. 
And memories of other runs and other thongs and girls.

Oh, girls!

Girls who run or wait for me to run.
Gilrs who are excited by power and thongs and my desire. 
Girls who want me,
who want sex, who want running.

Together it is too much for us, 
and we will pause our strides for love.
In the heat of passion, in the heat of the run,
in the heat of the desert.

Alone, the memories are still to strong for me 
and I will pause alone,
to dream and desire.

And then run again 
and again 
and again.

At last the sweat begins to drip.
I stop and without the wind, it pours.

And I yell to the desert, 
to the lizards, to the sun,

I am alive!

I run!