Sheep don't get judged. They get counted.

Step out of line and the reviews come in.

Too loud. Too much. Too soon. Who do you think you are.

We heard every one of them on the way up. We kept walking. The critics stopped somewhere behind us. Following would have meant leaving the flock.

So this is for whoever's next. The one under the bar at 6am with no audience and no permission. The one wearing what they were told not to wear. The one whose route makes no sense to anyone else.

It doesn't have to. They aren't the ones walking it.

No panel. No score. No verdict. Not one fuck given.

You're unjudged. Move.