Now I sit here, late afternoon, under the overpass. It is the home of those who live on the margins of society. Literally. It wreaks of body fluids and is littered with shoes, paint cans, buckets, and empty glass bottles, discarded by those who found the bottom. The walls are covered in graffiti. A beautiful reminder of the hurt and angst running rampant through this city: "RIP Uncle Brad." "Death." Or other unreadable letters, decipherable by only their authors. I want to forget this stench, but I know I won't. I want to avert my eyes from that little orange pill bottle, twenty feet away, but I can't. I want to pretend like this was all part of the past, but Mareese doesn't have to live here, but it's not... And he does. The only thing new about this place are the brand new porn 'zines stacked by the fence. They curse any hope that enters here, and tell me I'm not wanted. The smell wafts through the air, curling around and around in circles.
It has nowhere to go... just like everything else.
