Running is like a sweeper in your head.
An eco-friendly sweeper that sucks up and siphons toxins from your head.
The sweeper sucks up your money worries, for a while.
She picks up the remorse from arguments with your sister or brother. A long, lingering affair gathers dust. Your mother told you this so often. She's gone now. You miss her, I know. Keep the pace.
The street sweeper takes care of swallowing the depressive symphony caused by the long minutes of driving to and from work. You chase trouble when you're angry. The car isn't a cage.
It calms pressure, tension, and the seasons between two reflections. Watch out for the horns.
When you run, the sweeper lubricates the ducts that manage your good mood, despite the mistakes and the lonely darkness. You know, insomnia, Nancy?
She throws her full bags one after the other into the compost or in the mail, to your mother's house, into the universe, to tell her that you're taking care of yourself. You promised her, onto her bed.
A short respite novel #jeanleloup
Go run.
Tie your shoes with pride. You do housework and mileage. The odometer of your being, your dashboard, witness to your records.
Personally, abs, with music or fields of birds.
Endorphin The sweeper picks her battles, one step at a time, in your lows as well as your highs. She doesn't judge. She does offal, even with her feet in the water. The waxed driveway. Running in the rain without an umbrella.
Go run.
Running is like a sweeper in your head.
Your worries will be swept away. Goodbye to a few pounds and goodbye to your excess pounds. One stone, two birds. Pounds to lose pounds.
In the wind, it's not true that you don't have time. Take the time, it belongs to you. Do it for them, for your children. Be proud for those who are proud.
A sweeper as therapy.
A sweeper like a friend.
A sweeper that eats almost all the rhymes in i.
I'm going to need ChatGPT to finish my story.
A sweeper in the head, that's what running is all about.
It's free, or almost. Like a museum for creativity.
A snub to the years of suffering, Laurence.
The sweeper tickles your life, gives it years.
Years to your life and life to your years.
Go run.
Go touch the sky, the seventh or even the eighth. Go reach for the moon, get your endorphins pumping on Saturn. Go run on the ring. Just beautiful.
Go run.
Your Olympics without doping or money. A little sweat. Happiness. The antidepressant.
Oh, I love this text! Very, very true and motivating!! We should make a song about it!
This is a good suggestion and that is exactly what Hugo did here: https://www.facebook.com/share/r/1CLSsiU2mu/
A very beautiful text, and above all very realistic! Thank you!