I am running. My legs are taking strides longer than professionals; my arms are pumping so hard, they are a blur; my heart no longer has beats, but a steady purr. I trip--over a crack in the pavement? a pebble?--and I fall. My blood scrapes scarlet against the sand-colored sidewalk. Just a scratch, I think, pulling my self up and propelling forward once more. Again, I am running, pushing myself harder than I ever have before. The pain in my knee begins to fade and I smile; the harder I push myself, the less pain I feel. Suddenly, the pavement beneath my feet is wet and slick. The small scratch on my knee has burst open, gushing blood under my feet. I can't stop running, but I scream for help. I have screamed too late and I tumble, first down a small hill, then a cliff. As I fall, I realize my knee was perfect; it had been my heart that was sloshing my over-worked blood. I wondered briefly if anyone noticed my pain during my run. But then, I hit the bottom. Everything goes black and I float, off into nothingness.