rose’s name

No one cares about my name though. They care about letting me know how filthy I am. They care about me moving or they’ll call the cops. They must not catch my homelessness. Hurry children. Cross the street to avoid the old, burly woman.

But this thin, shaking man seems to share my sadness – the droop forward in his shoulders, the listless way he wraps his bleeding hand into a small torn piece of velvet.

Maybe he’s like me. Maybe he’ll want to know my name?

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hobo,

The shadow raises his gloved hand and smashes the window, breaks in through the back, the club is empty, old disused, dusty, broken glass litters the floor and here and there are dark bloodlike stains, he shivers, gathers together some broken bits of furniture, tears an tatty old poster off the wall, ‘Tonight Live at the Orchid Room’ for kindling and lights a fire in the middle of the dance floor, he is shaking with cold and hunger,