Poetic Rowing

In every race… the River of Ages coughs up three spirits:

the bloated corpse, the quitter, and the suicidal bastard who’d rather die than lose.

The river feeds them to you, lets them crawl into your boat, into your bones.

One will drag you under. One will beg you to stop. One will drive you to glory.

Drown the first two.

YOU— beautiful bastard

ROW!

—anonymous rower One of us