I shower and dress. Every day resembles the one before it as I slide my arms into my parka. Life is a rite. Smoking a cigarette in the cold, breath and smoke are one. I’m shocked I find things to write about. But I do. In the sky a single star shines. A clandestine god is winking.
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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