*Walking to the corner, the very back corner, I turn and lean up against the brick. A sudden onset of weariness forces me to slide down into the dirt. Just slowly slide down the brick wall, heels making tracks in the dirt below until I’m on the ground. There’s crap all around; a black metal futon frame held together with ductape (cardboard acts as it’s mattress), Several brown paper bags that encase empty bottles of cheap wine, a few wood palates stacked in the other corner, tattered pieces of 2 or 3 old flannel shirts, a fork, a full spool of 3 lb. Test fishing line and a poster nailed into the concrete wall of the building above the wooden palates. That’s the item I find the most disturbing (and most comforting at the same time) about this place. That poster. That black and white photograph. A young blonde woman whos haunting, wide eyes stare past you capturing a moment (a split second) before closing them, bringing her hands up to shield the world from her reality, hiding the tears that silently trace the black stains from the bottom of her eyes to her chin. She’s wearing clothes. A tight long-sleeve stretchy shirt with a white collar, and jeans that seem to be missing a belt. She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

I look at her for a while, then lean over to grab the back pack leaning against one of the legs of the futon. I drag it across the ground to me and dig around in the top pocket for my pager.