a crumpled husk of a man lies under a faded black blanket, his nearby
shopping cart piled high with sticky soda bottles. at one point, this man
was a boy. as he lies there now, on that rat-chewed blanket, caked in 
dried sweat and dust and grime and probably tears, i want to reach out 
and take that boy's hand. i want to tell him the world is his for the 
taking if only he has the conviction to hound after his dreams with a 
tenacity that bears more resemblance to stubborn stupidity than 
passionate pursuit. i want to tell him that the world is cruel and 
unforgiving and yet compassionate and loving at the same time. i want to 
tell him that even though life is full of bruised knees and broken 
hearts and lost dreams and fucking digging through the garbage hoping to
find a half-eaten sandwich for lunch, it  sometimes overwhelms you with 
the sun gradually setting behind a palisade of lofty pines, softly 
swaying in the gentle dusk breeze, as crickets and frogs sing to the 
fireflies flitting above flickering flames that smell every so slightly
of pine needles, and while the adults talk of boring adult things, 
there is the pressing matter of who wants s'mores?  

i want to tell him these things not because i think they will change
his condition; i want to tell him these things because that is the only 
way i can deal with the pain of seeing a fellow human being in such a state.