The painful, dangerous life of a cross eyed dog with permanent headaches. No peace.
Where hope survives on coffee grounds and orange peels.
The primal eye contact from the pained hooker on Woodward
broken glass, black snow, grey sky, the dilapidating hulk of humanity.
Almost too real.
Born to lose, made to suffer in the concrete jungle. The options exist only in the flavor of misery.
Thirty dollars a day for a full time hustle, respite spent on seedy weed and malt liquor.
struggle only gets worse when the water turns to ice. The person to a shell.