Self love is Bullshit until it isn't by philologie, literature
Literature
Self love is Bullshit until it isn't
In Berkeley, California, the rain is a downpour.
You shove your pajama pants into your boots to run outside at midnight and
this time only you bring an umbrella and
this time only you smoke a cigarette (the bell of the umbrella: a dingy coronet) and
this time
you don’t want it to kill you.
The rain is driven like the city is making up for
all its months of dryness
like it’s gotta get it all in right now, tonight and so
you’re standing in a river that’s running down your driveway to join all the other rivers and your feet are getting so wet but
you can’t feel it yet and
in the cracked pavement of your shitty