It is midnight. At this moment, a man with a syringe up his arm puts his head back in pure lament. He wishes to escape reality At this instant, a woman stands on a corner batting her eyes at cars with cheap paint. She wishes to place food on the table. Just now, a boy loads a rifle, all his silent motions becoming loud. He wishes to make his family proud. Just then, a girl held her head up again only to be beaten down. She wishes to make a sound. A man dressed with scabs pushing a shopping cart, full of a wholly trash bags, pauses for a moment by any alley next to a mini-mart. Before he bends his wrinkled body, reaching for his small brown paper package, he hears the silent wail of a baby, somewhere in that dimly lit passage. He hesitates for a minute, thinking the voices have come back, but sure there again the cries ring within it, and so his eyes squint to look into the black. Trying to make out the shadows from the trash bin, he spots a movement, small and wild, like that of a rolling sea trapped in a garbage can. Sure enough, it is that of a small child. Wrapped up in small clothes made of dirt, immediately, he takes the bundle up in his hands. Gently clearing the face with a piece of his shirt, he reveals a pair of shut eyes, as if in a wondrous dreamland. He looks in between the grime and dust, and there, there he sees the small curve of a smile. The man dressed in rags looks about him to see a paternal figure, but no one comes out to claim the poor creature. He makes a small bed in his cart, moving old bottles and pieces of cardboard; a small throne from what the child was just sleeping in. He continues to push his shopping cart past the junkie on the corner, the prostitute in heat, the armed thug by the street, the violence behind a closed door. He moves on, waiting for the sun to come up. It is still midnight