Yesterday, after work, some guy was walking up the steps leading to the train station on my way through town. He was homeless, or thereabouts. He had no shoes or socks on, and his feet were cut, blistered and bloody. Pulling himself up the stairwell with the aid of the railing to his side, he sniffled and cried, seemingly in a great deal of pain and distress. Moving behind him, I eyed his feet and winced at the sight of them and wondered if he had perhaps been attacked. That maybe someone had robbed him of his shoes and then stamped on his toes for good measure. Or if it had instead been a pack of feral kids deciding to teach him a lesson for being a filthy animal of no importance to anyone. He seemed such a wretched creature, and I felt bad for him, but I didn’t offer him any assistance. I merely passed him in silence as he suffered and sobbed and continued on my way home as if such a thing was of no consequence. In the hours that followed, I was overcome by guilt. The next day, in the same location, I saw another homeless man placed in handcuffs by two police officers. The man was young. Younger than me. His clothes were dirty and he was resting on a sleeping bag. The officers had him face-down on the ground, with one in particular digging his knees into the guy’s back. I observed the scene from the corner of my eye and continued on my way as he protested in vain. It started to rain, and my cigarette went out. The hole in my stomach grew so big that I thought I was going to be sick. There were children playing in a playground, screaming at the sky for it to thunder, and my brain rattled in my skull like a coin in a jar tumbling down a spiral staircase.