"Homeless, need food, please help" The cardboard that this message was written on was bent, dirty, and close to the point of falling apart. It resembled the man who stood next to it. He watched as every car drove away, not one of them slowing as they passed him. They would glance out their windows, and quickly look away. It was a cold winter afternoon, the sun didn't even show its face, and the man was dressed in rags. His shoes were dirty, grungy, something that anybody else would've thrown away years ago. His face was black, he was in bad need of a shave, and the dirt clung to his beard. No one noticed his pain.
Everyone was in a hurry: they had jobs to do, families to feed, and places to be. This man, had nowhere else to be. This corner was his home.

The saddest thing about this man, was that nobody did anything to help him. They didn't give him the three dollars they had in their pockets. It’s not like they really needed it. They didn't give him their two dollar cheeseburgers that they were eating, even though they knew where they could get their next meal. They didn’t even acknowledge the man’s existence.

Nobody did anything because there's too many liars, too many people just trying to make an easy buck. There’s no way to tell if they are really homeless. Maybe, this man had a drug problem. Maybe, that's why he was on that corner. Maybe, it was his own fault. But then again, maybe it wasn't.

As the afternoon faded into the evening, he picked up his sign, and left that corner. He slept on a bench that night.