Red light gives the living room an aura I like to wake into. Jeans in a pile on the floor, I clutch them and rush down the stairs. The only reason I afford this place is I’ve been here so long. This city was a haven for artists. Soon we’re all going to starve. Oh well, it’s good for my work, how about yours?
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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