i have found myself in a club. not established out of intent, but the tugs of the earth and its circumstance have strung us together. we found ourselves, brows beaded with sweat and hands bloodied and calloused. we did not mean to form, but we were meant to. to meet each other’s exhausted eyes, glazed over with indifference from the constant prejudice of cards dealt, and no words were spoken. none were needed. we met each other’s eyes and we knew that finally we had found someone.

we are the conquerers of the forgotten. we are the collectors of broken glass and innovators of redemption. we are artists of absurdity. failure is face all to familiar. but we are not bitter. failure is the reminder of the ultimate goal.

this was not of intent, but what beautiful people.