When most people think of big cities, they imagine gigantic structures climbing into the bright blue sky, or millions and millions of people scampering around like little ants trying to get food in for the winter. What they don't think about, however, are the lower-class people, men and women who live on the cold, cracked sidewalks in the shadows of those gigantic buildings.
             There is a section of every big city called the slums. In this place, the smell of rotten garbage fills the misty, stagnated air. Everywhere you look, you see moldy cardboard boxes and old blankets people threw away. Grimy clothes and old, empty liquor bottles are scattered everywhere. Newspapers, with coffee stains and disgusting odors all about them, were laying inside the boxes as some sort of carpeting or maybe even a blanket for the inhabitants.
             In the corner of this hellish place, stands a pitiful, heart-breaking creature. His hair is full of tiny pieces of newspaper, and crumbs of food that accumulated from hours of rummaging through the deep, rusty dumpsters. In his chapped, wrinkled hands, he held his last bite of food for the day, a piece of brown, rotten meat. The old brown raincoat he had on barely stayed upon his slender, bony shoulders. Stained and full of holes, his flannel shirt was buttoned up all the way to his scrawny neck to keep the cold the air from hitting his filthy skin. A pair of fairly new jogging pants was rolled up past his black shoeless feet. The look in his glassy, watering eyes was like the look of a helpless, hungry, crying baby.
             It was like he knew that no matter how much he looked, or how much he prayed, he would have no success finding anything in the dumpsters. He had a moustache that propelled down past his lips and looked as if it was connected to his untrimmed beard by a piece of breadcrumb. His yellow buckteeth were hidden behind the mass of hair and what remained of his last meal.
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