In Carré Saint-Louis I use a toilet. Holding my breathe I read the anti-government slogans covering the walls. Walking along une rue piéton I smoke a joint. Passing a terrace a man says I stumbled into a guy with his pants around his ankles, he was furiously masturbating. Every single day is a blessing.
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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