I see them at night, hear them: the other hobos, the addled veterans, the ones who’ve resignedthemselves to this, embraced this. Their throats thick with cheap booze and butchered song lyrics,guzzling and puffing and injecting away the last of their lives. The next morning, they’re passed out allover, missing clothes, sporting bruises, sores, and sordid tales, but it doesn’t matter. At least, for afew hours, they forgot. Shut down. Killed the part of them that once cared.
Not me, though. I’m still too proud, too hopeful.
And while I can enjoy it sometimes, the daytime warmth and joking by the fire with Teddy, Wanda,and Chowder, a surprisingly tasty chicken burger and home fries at the soup kitchen, in quiet stolenmoments like this, doing art in my tent, I ca
