My job gets me up early, when the streets are empty and quiet except for the growls of far-away trucks, the chirps of their reversals, and the shuffling feet and subdued grumbles of the vagrants at the station.
So I am walking now, through this silent, noisy landscape, and here, with all the others, I see a homeless man sitting on a blanket, a knife in one hand and three fingers missing on the other. Blood is pouring from what’s left of pinky, ring and middle.
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