South of Market. Urine-smelling streets, green rusty overpasses, cardboard boxes stacked into a makeshift hut. As I walk by a chain-link fence topped with razor wire, a loose pile of handwritten papers catches my eye. They flutter randomly in the breeze. I stop and sort the pages.
I consider the unanswerables, and I contemplate how terrible we all really are to each other.
I walk back to my ivory-tower office, the October fog threatening to turn to rain.