They don’t drink. They don’t smoke. They don’t fight. They don’t fuck. They sit inside and stare at glass. Afraid of sun, of strangers, of sweat and tears. No calluses on their hands. No songs in their chests. They speak in borrowed words and hide behind softness and irony like it’s some kind of shield. But the world doesn’t care about your feelings. It doesn’t care about your therapist. The world wants to know if you can bleed and keep walking. If you can lose and still show up. These boys wear fear like a second skin and call it wisdom. They mistake quiet quitting for dignity. Their greatest ambition is to find a job where they can sit in their pyjamas and complain over slack. They’ve never stood in the wind with their heart open and their hands empty. They think safety is meaning. They think comfort is peace. But they’ve never known real danger, and so they invent it on a computer screen. They’ve never been truly alive, and so they mock the ones who are. It’s a goddamned waste.