He was old and bedraggled, corrupted, his face was pock-marked and covered in some unknown grime. I watched him drag his legless and frail body along a gum-ridden sidewalk on some makeshift cart he had made out of old planks he found in the trash and tarnished silver wheels that scream like newborn spirits in the outer dark. His clothes were moth-eaten and colorless, his hair matted and full of bugs. There is a sickness in this city, spiders in the mouth, the rain is like spit making indescribable shotgun blooms on the concrete. His rheumy white eyes meet my dead ones, the night air is sharp as the razor blades by a restaurant dumpster, a small feral cat with yellow, glowing eyes appears, it watches inquisitively, and it is the color of vampire black and the glow of a pornographic sign casts an Alice Blue hue on the animal blood lesions all over the poor man's arms. He wore a small tin cross around his neck, made from some long ago forgotten can he sank into his diseased liver and failing organs. I am wordless as I mark him, his blood smells like alcohol, and he is weeping the yellow slime of jaundice and decay, a wildness that clouds the mind. He removes his cross with hands that shake and tremble, he is frightened like a rabbit that has no hole to hide in, I exchange the gold cross I was wearing, bewildered, he holds it in his filthy and unwashed hands, he will see the caressing light of morning in the wheels of an expensive car, a gray looking street with a puddle of dancing reflections, a quiet grace among the uncleanness and blasphemers, he will howl, and he will shout, he will be made anew and death shall flee from him, although she will appear again when she does.