America

It was not the first time this had happened. Coming home only to find that home was no longer that, had happened far too many times to trouble him. This was merely another pebble on the path in which he walked. He suspected this would happen for quite some time now, daily he searched for what would inevitably become temporary housing. He had decided on an uninhabited building, at least here he would be able to save enough to move to another place. He gathered his one bag and his crimson pillow and began to walk. He thought that this building sat in a peculiar place, between some soup kitchen and a liquor store. He had read something during his schooling about locations of buildings. It was something about the government needs poor people to never thrive, but to survive. That it was not necessary but mandatory for buildings like these to be placed near each other in hopes that the poor would be kept close to there last breath while pit pocketing them of there money. He no longer cared about that though, for he was living in the mist of the very statistics he once studied. Now, his only care was to break the detrimental cycle in which he stumbled upon. While walking he question was this truly America, home of the free, or was this America, home of the thieves. This question was one that would have to wait for he had arrived upon his liquor store soup kitchen sandwich. He entered his new home but before he feel asleep his watch alarm sounded. It was time for work.