His pale, dry, pasty, skin, dulls his soft eyes. The only sense of biological existence about him was the sweaty grease that oozed from his chocked pours. Other than that one would assume he was dead. Not that he was living, he may have been alive but he had no life. He was just a human shell. A shadow of the man he used to be. Iíd feel sorry for him, but his years pass so much slower than mine. He has probably forgotten what he was and what it felt like to do more than exist. I wonder if he remembers being a child. I wonder if he was a child or if he has always been inert. I wonder if a cold breeze ever felt fresh opposed to deathly cold.
As I stand there, philosophizing about what itís like to be him. I wonder if he tryís to understand being me. Not just me, anyone with a life. I wonder if he sees himself living in my comfy shoes. If he did would he live so idly? Would he consume to the degree of greed and ignorance that I do? I wonder how compassionate he would be. Having apparently never been the recipient of generosity. How could he be generous himself?
I throw a pound in his hat and as I do a drunken, senseless, burble of thanks protrudes from his lips. I donít mind giving him money; I wish I could help more. But I havenít the time, right?