You are not merely late; you are history.
Nothing has ever seemed this important as this moment of lateness.
You can’t imagine anything ever having been this important. You will be killed, surely, when you arrive. Spears will be hurled at you and you will die in St. Stephen-like agony, a martyr of time.

This is why, this is exactly why you don’t care who looks your way as you huff by. Yes, you’re out of shape. Yes, you feel as though you might collapse on the pavement and never rise again in mortal form—but who gives a flying fuck? She is going to kill you, so you might as well die getting there to meet her.