A bum sitting on the stairs of Église Saint-Zotique calls out soleil soleil soleil like the bells above him beckon the faithful. There’s a chill in the air. But the smell of summer coming is faint on the breeze. And that's all I need.
And I need all the reasons I can find not to hate myself. But it’s hard. Even the idea makes me shiver. Because I see loving myself like looking down on others. Riding around on a high horse. And I never want to think I’m better then the people I see on the street. The ones who have it rough. The ones who don’t fit in. The ones I see my own face in.
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