A marathon, at least for me, is about the infinite. 42.2 km is more than I can represent concretely. Like hashish and poetry, marathons would be a proof of the human taste for the infinite. But is this taste for the infinite then “erring in its route,” to use Baudelaire's phrase, like it is in hashish? Or is it more like poetry, revealing something of the infinite without fear or anxiety in the framework of a definite metrics? Can poetry help keeping together time, and numbers, so that the mind will not fall into the abysses that may open up between one minute and another, a kilometer and another?

I couldn't find any answer, because I was too preoccupied with the race itself, and I was simply numb in the end, too tired to feel tiredness, or any kind of contentment.

Anyway, it was a dead end. I couldn't keep running marathons. Another therapy had failed.