Pulse, the rhythmical movement of the arteries as blood is pumped through them by the beating of the heart. Every breath burnt his oesophagus, yet he pushed his legs harder. He ran faster. His foot fall shattered the early morning silence, as he sprinted through the park. The rippling of the river alerted him to the sound of his pulse. Throb-throb. His heart throbbed in his chest, and he pushed harder and faster. Perspiration glistened on his face, it ran down his neck, and chilled him when the breeze made contact with his skin. Throb-throb. He heard his pulse pounding in his head. Throb-throb. That was the only sound he wanted to hear. He ran faster, he ran to the rhythmic sound of his pulse. Throb-throb. The leaves slapped his face, he brushed it away with his hand, slap-slap. “You stupid boy.” He ran faster, his chest was on fire. Throb-throb. He concentrated on the sound of his pulse. Throb-throb. “Worthless piece of crap, I wish you had died at birth.” Throb-throb. He stopped abruptly, that sound, no, that was wrong, not the sound he was concentrating on. Music. “Baby I compare you to a kiss….” “No!” “Too late Ian, I told you, you can never out run me.” The truth is, every story, every choice, and every thought, can have two sides. A wall has two sides. A man? Well a man is what the world had made him, slap-slap. “I wish you would be hit by a bus on the way to school, fool.” Words, sticks and stones, they will change you. Make you faster, stronger, devious, or benevolent. “Throb-throb.” “Listen to your pulse Ian. Just listen……..” “…. You are my power, my pleasure……..your pain.” sang Breno as he approached the girl lying on the lawn, kicking her legs to the rhyme of the song.