I used to see a dirty and ragged man sitting at the light where I turned onto the freeway on one of the many routes I took to work back in the late 1990s. I couldn’t say he was an old man, neither could I say he was young. He had the look of another place.
It was easy to see that he was without home or without food and without the comforts that so many of us take for granted. There he would sit, waiting upon the kindness of strangers, the bare soles of his feet worn black and hard from having no shoes.
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