Comrades is a symptom.

Comrades is the cold chill that grips your soul on Sunday evenings.

It is the whisper that tells you

to quit your job.

It is the knot in your stomach that makes you ask

"What am I doing with my life?"

Comrades is your Britney moment.

It is the seething rage that dares you to burn the motherfucker down.

Comrades is the lost memory of what was once possible, now reduced to an ambiguous anxiety about the present.

But don't be confused.

Comrades is not politics.

Comrades is retail therapy.

Comrades is all we have.