I won’t run after you. Mainly because I am not fast enough. I’ve trained in the past, for you. But the gain is so fleeting. For I can speed up and catch up to you. But what’s the point? By the time I catch up to you, I am too tired to talk to you.
Not that you’re interested in what I have to say. You claim you are. You remember that I don’t like wicker. You repeat my one-time phrase of “Baderp, baderp.”

My legs are cramping. Sorry, I know we might be on the verge of something Big but I’m clutching my chest and I stumble off into the bushes.
I am now alone and feel grateful. At least now I can catch my breath and think of an alternative to you.

There’s always masturbation, there, in the bushes. It’s easier this way, pleasuring myself, believe me, no matter what the experts say. Being alone with pleasure is better because it happens sooner and it takes less effort.
“You are so lazy,” someone says as they run by me. They run by so fast, so you can’t see who exactly has called you lazy.

So you laugh and point at them. Off they run, to please others.
Good luck, you call back.
They can’t hear you. They are listening to their music.