Don't Psychoanalyze Me: Another Fragment

This one written this week. I used the same name as before because I couldn't imagine another one that wouldn't feel trite to me. I had been considering participating in National Novel Writing Month, which is why I began working on this. Note that I haven't worked it; this is just what came out. Compared with what I wrote months ago and posted earlier this week, it seems to be more of the same.

I can't actually imagine writing a novel, coming up with characters, naming them, researching things I know nothing about. How did Walker Percy do it? How does Buechner? How does anyone?

Not this anyone.

She ran down a corridor that seemed never ending. Never ending. Never ending. Rending. Past the soda machines. Past the closed doors with their glazed-in openings. Yes, the corridor seemed never ending, but so did the running. Her memory of her running had no beginning, and it seemed quite possible at the moment that it wouldn't end. Running toward something? Or away?

True that the corridor branched off in other directions at times. For some reason the turnings seemed ominous and she couldn't remember having taken any of them.

Running and Running and Running. Never foot-sore. Ever fleet.

“I've been reading too much symbolist crap,” she said out loud. And that was it. There was nothing after that. Not even a transition.

Waking. Walking. Not even out of breath. Outdoors. Sunshine. Sidewalks. No running.

Min's life was quite conventional, in fact. There was the waking every morning, both suddenly and early. The stumbling to the coffee pot, pouring a cup in the dark, using the light from the microwave to insure she wouldn't spill. Not even feeling her way as she walked silently through the dark. At least Min hoped her steps were silent. There was no way to be sure. Getting dressed. Walking the dog. A quick breakfast and then to work. The evenings were practically the same, only in reverse.

It seemed like there might be an element of haunting going on, though she wasn't sure what it was that gave her that little chill at an unexpected moment—an undisclosed moment almost, as she had a very hard time finding a way to frame it. Was it before or after the wine was poured, or somewhere in between? Was it in the second between turning the tap at the sink and the water rushing out?