Writers are known for being runners. (And also alcoholics.) They are known for loving to be in motion. It is said to be an extension of the imagining self, a time and space inextricably linked to streaming consciousness. The body, flooded with adrenaline, becomes almost indistinguishable from a sort of dreaming wakefulness. Wordsworth and Coleridge were big on running. As was Thoreau. Dickens has an essay called, "Night Walks,' in which explores his insominia and late night walks. I get it. I just

to be cont.