An Inuit man begs at the bottom of the escalator, I toss him my change. The line to buy tickets from the machine is longer than I want to wait. No one in the booth I step over the turnstile. I’m owed a free ride from time to time. It’s in the contract. You bleed me I bleed you. Eight minutes until the next train.
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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