Nineteen Minute Supercut of Tom Cruise Running 

Adrian Sobol

You fall off a mountain. You fall off a terrace. You fall off a fire escape. You fall, or you let yourself go. You plummet five stories into a bathtub full of ice. You tire yourself fistfighting the carbine. You run across the carapace of every rooftop in France. You look down on the streets, where traffic, small and anonymous, still holds some memory of you. You climb onto a plane. You climb the light up to high five the ionosphere. You tame a horse, then its cavalry. You outpace the generals. You outflank the tides. You hear the ocean applaud each time you deny it. You’re awarded medals. You see your family one last time. You sing yourself to sleep. The words escape you. The melody turns on you like the fog. Dingy, soft, your voice cracks. There’s little of it left. You save your strength. You fall out of love but you fall with grace, wired to the scaffolding of your confidence. You are ready for contact, wherever it comes. You make peace with surfaces. You place your cheek on the lavish, new marble countertop. It’s cool, inviting. It offers you little. You ask for less. How simple a surface is. How uncomplicated. There’s no room for despair. Between you or your thousand yard grin.