You can call in sick for flu,for migraines,for broken bones.

But not for an argument
between your coffee and your colon.

So you sit,and you sweat,and you bargain with the gods

Hours later,friends debate.

Whether Claude is a more caring companion,
whether ordinary lives, might truely be extraordinary.

The body recovers,the conversation does not.

We are three men.
We own no barrows.
But we are the Barrow Boys.

Services include:

Moving large volumes of material, slowlyProviding inconsistent motivationOffering unsolicited life advice mid-taskOccasional concrete work (results may vary)Barrow not included.

Somewhere between reviewing a year of “self-improvement” and admitting we mostly just noticed our own bullshit more clearly, things unravel.
We talk habits, lies, growth, doomscrolling, leadership, running, not running, reading, not reading, and the strange realization that paying attention to your life is both the solution and the problem.

Client Feedback:
“Work was completed eventually.
Morale was confusingly high.
Would not hire again, but would have a beer with them.”

Bring on 2026.
The Barrow Boys are ready.
(Still no barrow.)

A man stands in a forest car park,He came here for peace.
He brought mindfulness, a towel he forgot, and a brain that will not shut up.

The pool is closed. The towel is missing.
The togs are imagined, a bird sings.
Somewhere a grown man screams into the steering wheel of a station wagon.

Ancient philosophers spoke of the cup overflowing.
These ones speak of the chest gently folding over itself like a wise and patient croissant.

Because depth, is not measured in silence, meditation, or perfect routines.

Depth is measured in small collapses. In failed self-care days.
In forgetting the towel. In sitting in a car park asking and eventually realising:

A man is not defined by the absence of folds.

A man is only as deep as his titty roll.