Nothing moves. All of yesterday’s hookers have gone somewhere else. No doubt run off by the cop car sitting on the corner when I got here. Though the city is so still the bar across from where I’m standing resembles a painting in this light. Every little moment is full of beauty.
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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