Imagination: Putting Myself in the Picture

I see again poverty at its work. people stare and wonder, "what if that were me?". the man lays down on the hard concrete out in front of a liqour store unsure why he is here, and why shouldn't he deserve to be like everyone else. I smell city air. musty, dirty unclean city air. people here are used to it, but it disturbs me that everyone can breath in this contaminated oxigen. I hear the city streets bustling about with their nomal, everyday, repetitive lives. I feel the sweet spring air. the rays of sumlight beat softly against my skin making instinctivly stay out of the shade. I taste a faint hint of liqour. the man on the ground reeks of it. It is early morning around and there is still remenecense of the previous night and all its inhabitants with a few traces of shattered bottles of shame.