Smoking is all I have left. No drugs. No booze. I’ve become the kind of man I made fun of. Like a crystal ball I saw myself in them. I knew what was coming. A life of solitude. A monk with no order. The laughter of my youth wasn’t even mine, it belonged to the future.
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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