Rest day. No running; well no running unless I can’t stand it. A good bet for now. Migraine, bad juju I think, too much thinking, not enough acting, too little clarity, too little, too often. “…Too much of nothin’ makes a fellow mean…”( The Mighty Quinn according to Bob Dylan)On the other hand, it is what I have made of  it, the running, the writing, the shooting and like that. So it must be in my own hands to at least do the footwork…seat of the pants in the seat of the chair, quit yer whinin’ and write something, anything. In an hour or two you can go chop some wood, literally and then you can rearrange the weights, move the bench, do the laundry, sell something to some one , anyone, eat lunch a spoonful of complex carbs at a time, vacuum the living room, edit the last post, drift across the universe  in a facebook space  module, quit whinin’, send out the rent check(late), hang the micro fibre, dry the other stuff, gaze out the window, gaze at my own navel, shift the fleet up the coast ( as if), write some more. Nap. The road leads somewhere, even when I can’t see for looking. Keeping the faith, lifting your eyes to whatever you believe in, taking your medicine, literally and otherwise and keeping it tight. A rest day? Not so much.