I watched him make his way through the uncomfortable crowd. None, failing to acknowledge his presence, wether they made it apparent or not. This being not an easy task, for his voice may have only been asking for their spare cents, but his entire being was screaming for their senses to call attention to his misfortune.
             His odor reached me before he did and tickled my nose, but I fought to react, not wanting to seem rude. I knew he needed not to be reminded of his stench. His grimy, mangled hair made me wonder why he even bothered keeping it. Yet, just as this thought came to mind, I realized just how unjust I was to have thought it- to dispose of something merely because it is unclean and uncared for. Then I wondered how decent it would look with a simple washing.
             I didn't need to hear his words to know what he was asking for. I didn't need to know his story to feel sympathetic. I simply knew that I had what he was in need of, so I acted commiserately. I reached in my pocket for some money and felt some bills in my hand. I covertly peaked at the one I had in between my fingers and noticed that it was a five dollar bill. I hesitated. I returned to feeling for something that I told myself I could better afford. After several seconds of fumbling for a dollar bill, I looked up to find that it was too late; he had already passed me by.
             Even then I could have justified my actions, but instead I ended up trying to justify my inactions. "He doesn't deserve to be handed free money, if he is hungry, he should find a job. I can't be giving away my hardearned income to every homeless person I see; I would be broke!" This I told myself to relieve my conscience. I found no relief. Rather, a sick feeling of disappointment was what remained. "Why did I not give him the five dollars?" I could have survived without five dollars for a day. Then again, who
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