Poetic Rowing

What drives eight fools to crawl outta bed at four, in the dark, in the cold, just to row a goddamn boat?

…

It ain’t glory. It ain’t women. Sure as hell ain’t money.

It’s the ache they can’t explain— the one that feels more honest than any church sermon.

Somewhere between the pull and the pain, they disappear into the abyss. Eight nobodies become one ugly, beautiful machine.

That’s the thing— the only time the world shuts the fuck up, and something finally makes sense.

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—anonymous rower One of us