"Spare a dollar?" John asks in a nasal voice from where he haunts our stoop. Despite him being almost colorless as a person, I still find him grating in a way that I'm not proud of, nor can I explain my reaction to him.
We're not really able to ask for what we want, because we don't just want a dollar, or a cigarette, or for that pretty girl to "smile,": we're hungry, or bored, or lonely, but we don't know it, or how to say it, so we can't actually help each other.
"Sorry, man," I say, like always.
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One year ago: Aspirations
Two years ago: Bodhisattva Vow
Three years ago: Self-Esteem
Four years ago: Good Job!
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