You’re running faster than time and space itself; Fleeing authorities, the world, yourself. People witnessed your crime, but you have yet to be apprehended. You know something: This was no arrest you committed. No, you committed outright murder. Why?
Why ask why? Just run. Run faster than Rudolf. Fly into the air like Santa’s sleigh! Here those bells ring-a-ding-a-jingling. (Those bells are actually distant police sirens echoing in your frantic mind. You do not know if they are real.)
You’re lucky no one pulled a citizen’s arrest. Lucky. Oddly enough, your nose is not bleeding right now. Neither is any other part of your body. Can that mean you did the right thing? This was moral? There are a thousand — nay, a trillion — other processes going on right now, yet this running process is the only one that matters to your universe. You don’t need a map right now. You couldn’t read a map right now. The only map is how much more naked distance between yourself the crime scene. Running is your destination, even if it takes forever to get there.
You’re not one of the usual suspects, as Santa could easily be identified in a line-up. Yes, but that doesn’t matter! Santa can’t die forever anyway. It’s not in the script. You are magic personified. You are murder personified. You can run forever and ever. Parched yet still running.