The Old Guard grips tighter in the throes of a losing battle, but this is not a celebration because we are not the heroes; glory belongs to those after us. Shackled by the legacy of our forefathers, we will not save the world. But the world will be saved because we opened the floodgates to a life properly lived, in deep valleys and unexplored channels of goodness. Us wayward souls stumbling through a wasteland drenched in the rays of an unpleasant sun. Irreverent jesters dancing without shame in this mad kingdom. It is all so fucking hilarious and beautiful and tragic at once. This is it. This is IT. This is it! And I am here—along with others—which makes you far less special, but an indispensable part of something far, far greater. So treat me as if we are gonna die (because we will). Treat a stranger the same. Look into our eyes, those mini-portals to the universe, and see we are all lost in this together, making it up as we go along. Lean into the discomfort; pledge allegiance to the process; and communicate on the wavelengths, man! I can feel you.