compassion fatigued and slightly bereft of guilt about it i gave myself to charity this morning and assisted a beggar find shelter in central station, i know all the good spots being an observer of these things. i don't know how long mr. trick will hold out, he may stay there a few days or just a few hours for he is whimsical and transient, he is made of flesh and bone and blood but he only inhabits these slightly, for his mind drifts into other realms he cannot quite bring himself to describe, but they are not here. when these windows of opportunity present themselves in a lucid wave he will nod at me, acknowledging i am not his enemy but never quite available to think of me as a friend. i set him up in the corner, he has access to his beloved streets and i leave him watching heavy rain through the stone portal doorways as the umbrella heads pass through into their own personal private madnesses. i grab him a coffee and a donut from the fast food joint, it's not a healthy breakfast but i don't think mr. trick is watching his weight. when i get back he's made a base camp, wrapped in blankets with his sleeping bags between the stone floor and himself. he's already waving a five dollar bill around that generous commuter must have given him, probably some other worn out cynical bastard who's just like me, trying to reach out, connect, not through some altruistic purpose but desperation and despair. i have to laugh, my own pathetic-ness sometimes can amuse me. i feel like sitting down with trick and just seeing what the fuck happens but i've a dog waiting for me to walk and feed it, so i hand him breakfast and wish him a good day, he smiles and mutters something which could have sounded like a 'thank you for your help' but was probably something like, 'i wanted a whiskey and didn't they have any chocolate covered donuts.'