The Bachelor has his suit; pressed and clean. Heart as heavy as the briefcase he carries. Dreaming of a life far removed from the train, from the city and the state he's debt-bound to.

The Nurse has his scrubs; spit-stained and wrinkled. Hands chapped and nimble. Caring for his child-patients who wouldn't live to see next Christmas...or next week.

The Student has her laptop; stickers and plastic. A stomach full of off-brand rice and noodles. Bound to the daily grind, text-book burdened and a future blanketed in grey walls and alcohol.

The Soldier has his uniform.

The Anarchist has her mask.

The Writer has her pen.

The Faithful have a God.

The Children have their dreams.

We each have our own armor, and it is never as comfortable as it looks.