Raw, vulnerable, philosophical.
There’s a hole in the wall. Chest-high. Patched with duct tape and graffiti. On my side, I’m just knees on cold concrete. I can’t see his face. I don’t know his name, his sins, or if he voted the same way I did. I know nothing. gloryhole swallow faith
We spend our whole lives building walls. Drywall. Ego. Prejudice. Then we drill a single hole in them just to remind ourselves that we are not an island. Raw, vulnerable, philosophical
It was in a cracked tile bathroom at a truck stop off Interstate 9. A place that smells of bleach, stale cigarettes, and desperation. A place where the lights flicker like a dying heartbeat. gloryhole swallow faith
And that is the point.