不知道从什麼时候开始，在什麼东西上面都有个日期，秋刀鱼会过期，肉罐头会过期，连保鲜纸都会过期。我开始怀疑，在这个世界上，还有什麼东西是不会过期的？
如果这记忆是一个罐头，我希望这一个罐头不会过期。
I have been keeping to my routine of running every week. On Mondays, Wednesdays and Thursdays I put on my jogging shoes, strap a tracker to my arm and head out into the dark, cloudless night.
I start with a brisk pace and pick up speed with strides strong and brimming with confidence, ponytail swinging wildly left-right-left-right, one-two-one-two, black-white-black-white asphalt beneath the soles.
Running is a comfort to me. It is the only time when I keep to my homemade void of silence and feel the soft architecture of lungs collapsing and rebuilding itself in seconds. It is the only time when I don’t have to talk to anybody and don’t have to listen to anybody. It is the only time when I think of nothing and the only time I can finally be alone.
