Start Fiction:
Billy wondered how pan handlers always were able to get a hold of a black marker to write on their cardboard. Sharpies are not just lying around, nor do most pan handlers look like they would spend money on a marker to make a sign to get free money.
As he drove on by the most recent beggar, he figured perhaps they were able to get a marker at a shelter; borrowed or stolen. But why would a shelter keep buying markers that would just get stolen? Seemed like a huge budget drain. The system has flaws, indeed.
Billy arrived at home and pulled in to his garage. The evening sun was setting and the stars were beginning to pop up to the east. He walked to the mailbox and stood on the curb, watching the night sky slowly awaken. Would it really be so bad to sleep under this every night? he wondered. He turned to his house, realizing how lucky he was to have the option of shelter, safety, warmth. He looked down as he shook his handful of bills. Maybe they know something we don't.
Walking back through the garage, the sound of music came from the house. Bethany must be cleaning, again. Must have been a shitty day at work. Billy looked back towards the street, the encroaching night sky, stepping slowly towards the garage door.
End Fiction.
Short, but I am more worried about getting back in to the habit!
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