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April 22, 2002
Each day I watch him amble from car to car, a raggedy sign spelling out his story. Stranded and homeless and hungry. His clothes are shabby but clean and his face weathered by a life which has not been kind. Whether fate or his own foolishness has brought him to this point, I can't say. His is an old soul who has endured more than a soul ought to in thirty or so years. He is increasingly thinner with each passing week. A walking shadow, a living ghost. One day he isn't there and I know he won't be back.