Legless and naked.
Dirty from life and street.
Well shaved, but hairy.
He limped with hands and remaining leg up the street on his wheelchair.
Up there, he circled in the morning sun, in front of the closed fast-food chain.
Then he pushed right down the hill with a great force: his face was alive, his eyes were shining through the dirt and smog of the morning congestion.
He looked at me, and I smiled behind my mask. I looked at the people in suits waiting for a bus, their eyes were dead and mouths gasping for a bit of air.
A man in a good car was passing by and gestured on a crackhead with a beautiful face. He gave her his sandwich and drove off.
In the meantime, women with dirty souls run around in this morning spectacle.
Who of us can say: I am who I am, unless they lived a hundred lives, through pain and madness?
A junkie with potato peeler is skinning himself to the bones: if he were not abused and left alone as a kid, he could have been a doctor.
Now, he heals his pain, looking death to the eyes, peeling off his flesh and rasp the bones, until all that is left is a puddle of slime and light free from pain