He rambles about money as I prepare a coffee. You look like you got a license, a miserable law abiding Swede, I borrowed a car, all you gotta do is drive. I shake my head, he paces. He’s certain cops don’t see me. He’s right, they look right though. In an instant I could change my life, but I don’t, not today.
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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