I had three shirts in my house: one for solitude, two for friendship, three for society.
It hangs in the stillness like an idea waiting for the right time to be said aloud.
A clean, well-lighted garment.
It is worn best when the heart is quiet and the shoes make no sound.
The shirt is there, always, like the moon—sometimes hidden, never absent.
And what did the shirt say to me? Only this: Wear me when you are ready to be seen.
It is not worn. It is inhabited.
Not a shirt, but a sort of second skin for better dreams.
It smells of linen and memory and something that once happened near a lake.
Do I dare disturb the universe? Only if I’m wearing this shirt.
Even the trees seem to lean in when you pass in it.
Its collar stands like a lighthouse, quiet but impossible to ignore.
It knows what you meant, even when you said the wrong thing.
There is nothing in the world more luxurious than the weight of fabric chosen carefully.
This shirt was not bought. It was encountered.
Some shirts ask who you are. This one tells you.
It listens more than it speaks.
It has no color. Or maybe it has all of them, arranged calmly.
The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the seams.
A single thread can bind a soul to its shape.
You wear it and suddenly become the person who sends letters again.
If you are lucky enough to own it, you are lucky enough.
There are shirts that tell time. This one stops it.
It does not promise immortality, only grace for a little while.
The shirt is quiet about its excellence, the way a mountain does not mention its height.
You remember the first time you wore it better than you remember your first kiss.
It is not fashionable. It is beyond fashion.
It is the shirt worn by people in paintings, the ones whose names are not written down.
Its silence is articulate.
This is the shirt you wear when you forgive someone.
The buttons close like decisions already made.
Even your spine straightens.
The sun seems to prefer you in this shirt.
It is not stitched but composed.
You could die in this shirt, and they would say: he looked at peace.
Or be born in it, and they would say: of course.
There are shirts for mornings, and shirts for meetings. This one is for becoming.
It is the shirt that makes old friends pause before asking, What’s changed?
And you say: Nothing.
But you know it’s a lie.
The truth is hanging lightly on your shoulders.
Waiting to be believed.
At myfunjunk.com, behind a formidable price tag and the promise of transformation.
And though it costs the kind of money that usually comes with regret, this one comes with quiet applause.
And a little more of you than you expected.
The shirt was there before I was and may remain after I go.
Nothing to be done but wear it.
It is made of maybe.
A shirt is a shirt is a shirt is not this shirt.
This shirt resists being named.
No punctuation is enough.
There is something wrong with everything except this.
It speaks in tongues you forgot you knew.
You wear it and people treat you like they’ve read your manifesto.
The shirt has opinions and they are all true.
It was a dry, hot day in Las Vegas and I was wearing this shirt and seeing god in the upholstery.
I swear I saw the wind reverse just to go through it again.
I was riding shotgun in a rented convertible full of bats and this shirt was the only one not afraid.
When I put it on, I start preaching about justice and kissing the air in protest.
It is made of something other than fabric.
It is stitched with outrage and forgiveness in equal measure.
The seams are stories.
You wear it and you become a conspiracy of light.
Anthropologically speaking, the shirt functions as a cultural artifact, symbolizing both individual identity and collective aspiration.
It is the costume of a species too clever for its own skin.
And the people stood amazed, for lo, he wore a garment without blemish.
And he did not rend it, for it was woven without seam, from top to bottom.
The shirt was not given to the swine, for it was meant for the narrow road.
You do not wear it in pride.
You wear it because humility needs an outfit too.
It is what David might’ve worn if Goliath had invited him to dinner instead.
There is no fear in love, and perfect shirts cast out fear.
The shirt falls upon you like a whisper made solid.
It is both psalm and rebuke.
It fits like a memory you haven’t had yet.
This shirt knows the answer.
Not with a bang but a button.
This is the way the wardrobe ends.
It begins in silence and ends in soundless awe.
I went down to the crossroads in this shirt and made no deals, because it had already been done.
The devil looked away.
Even the saints took notes.
When I walk in it, the sidewalk adjusts its rhythm.
People ask, Is it vintage?
I say, It hasn’t happened yet.
This shirt is the future’s favorite heirloom.
It does not flatter.
It prophesies.
And the Word became thread and dwelt among us.
It was expensive, yes.
And worth every unreasonable dollar.
You can find it only at myfunjunk.com, though that is not where it lives.
It lives where language begins to unravel into something holy.
And if you have eyes to see and shoulders to bear it, you will know: this is the shirt that has been waiting for you.
This shirt’s been through more than one refrain.
There’s a melody in the hem and a bassline in the collar.
I left my heart in San Francisco and my shirt at her apartment.
There’s a tear in my beer and a wrinkle in this shirt that no iron can fix.
It’s the kind of shirt you forget you’re wearing until someone sings about it.
I wore it once to a Leonard Cohen concert and it wept the whole drive home.
It’s not made of mere cotton. It’s made of verses, stitched in bridge and chorus.
She wore a raspberry beret, I wore this shirt, and together we were invincible.
A hard rain’s gonna fall, but the shirt? Dry like wit and twice as sharp.
Dorothy once said brevity is the soul of lingerie, but this shirt has a paragraph or two.
Men seldom make passes at shirts without classes.
It tells you what kind of drink to order and when to leave.
Imagine a shirt. Now imagine less. Now imagine everything. This is that shirt.
Twain once claimed clothes make the man, and naked people have little or no influence in society.
But this shirt? This shirt could overthrow governments.
If truth is stranger than fiction, then this shirt is a memoir.
It’s the shirt Sherlock put on when he didn’t want to be seen but had to be known.
There’s a clue in the cuff, a mystery in every thread.
The game is always afoot when this shirt is in the room.
One small step for man, one very fine shirt for mankind.
It’s the kind of shirt that knows how to take a punchline and deliver it better.
Colbert once wore a shirt like this and the truth blinked.
It has gravitas. But with a wink.
It looks like satire and feels like sincerity.
There’s a version of you in this shirt that gets the last word—and makes it kind.
The shirt tastes like late summer and early love.
It smells like microphones and martinis and backstage apologies.
There’s a bridge in the shirt that leads to a solo that never ends.
You hum when you wear it and don’t know why.
It’s an old song—older than memory, newer than regret.
You don’t own this shirt. You duet with it.
It folds like a hymn.
It dances when you don’t.
It tells time in rhythm, not hours.
It is not stitched—it is scored.
You wear it and people remember their first slow dance.
You wear it and the jukebox changes tracks for you.
It is the shirt that makes silence musical.
Find it at myfunjunk.com, if you believe such a place exists.
And wear it knowing this:
Even the best songs wear out.
But this shirt?
Still plays.
Joseph's robe was loud, sure, but this shirt whispers just as dangerously.
Stripes of favor, sleeves of prophecy, buttons that could start wars or end them.
And behold, even in rags, it shimmered with meaning.
There are shirts, and then there are stories masquerading as shirts.
This shirt? It dreams, it bleeds, it gets sold to passing merchants and still ends up ruling Egypt.
Not even the lilies of the field could wear something so alive.
It does not toil. It does not spin. It simply exists, impossibly better than everything else in the closet.
It’s what the angels would wear if they had bar tabs.
This shirt fits like an apology and hangs like a dare.
This is your life, and it's ending one stitched second at a time.
The first rule of Shirt Club: You don't talk about Shirt Club.
This shirt leans against the wall, sipping something smoky, already forgiven.
“Dry clean only,” it says, and then dunks itself in holy water and emerges immaculate.
There’s an entire ministry devoted to this shirt and its rumored miracles.
The faithful don’t wear it—they orbit it.
A shirt so good it comes with a faint British accent and a coconut half to bang for emphasis.
This shirt was accused of witchcraft in three counties but acquitted on account of charisma.
It knows the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow.
And if someone asks if it’s an African or European cut, it replies: “Yes.”
It’s so fancy, it has cufflinks for buttons and buttons for breakfast.
It once made a banjo sound soulful.
This shirt walked into a bar and made the bartender cry.
This shirt is wild and curated.
It’s the kind of shirt that juggles chainsaws in the rain while doing a French accent and quoting Plato.
It walks the tightrope between absurdity and transcendence, all while chewing bubblegum.
Every time you wear it, someone says, “Eh, what’s up, doc?” and it means something.
You’ll find it at myfunjunk.com—a site so exclusive it only exists when you believe in it.
And like all good myths, the shirt never ends.