A man sat in a cardboard box. He didn't seem to mind it, and neither did anyone else who passed him on the street. All his possessions were covered by a plastic bag, and his clothes were from a dumpster.

Nobody paid any mind to the man in the alley. Why? Everybody has a life to live. He likes to tell himself this before bed. He takes off his shirt, rolls out his mattress made from his coat, and says a prayer to his god before he enters the dreams of poverty.

He wakes in the morning with a rumbling stomach... But it's been rumbling for a few days now. Nevermind it. He sits up without hitting his head on the ceiling, and puts on his shirt. The day is beautiful; beautiful air, beautiful sun. He looks out of his box and sees the moving people. Always moving. Is it wrong to be happy? To stay still for a few minutes at a time? For them, they eat away their minutes like kings before a feast. Nevermind them.

He warily crosses the threshold between alley and street. So many people step out in front of him. One isn't looking and stumbles into him. What nasty words they say. He only walks slowly to prevent too many more calories from burning. There's a trashcan; looks to be fuller than a dump site. He rummages through it, avoiding the looks of phone-holders and briefcase-carriers.

Paper. Foam plates. Chip bags. Unedible stuff. He gives up after awhile and moves on down the street farther. All the while, his belly calls him. That's his cell phone. He rubs it and walks about a block.

After foraging through three more trashcans, he decides to walk back. The sun is hot today, but that doesn't bother him. Bothers other people, though. Some construction workers are cursing and complaining about the heat. A lady walks fast, talking to somebody on her phone. She stops to complain about sweating and her hair. He just shakes his head.

Its afternoon. He's sitting out of his box against some brick building. There's nothing much to do except count the number of days or watch the flies. He looks over and finds a skillet with rain water. That's how he gets water. He reaches into his cardboard box and pulls out a plastic bottle. He dumps water carefully from the skillet into the bottle. Fills about a quarter of the way. He takes a sip and lies back down.

A dog licks his face. A dog? He opens his eyes to big brown eyes and a wet nose. It wags its tail and barks. He sits up and rubs his fingers in its hair. It would be pretty if it wasn't so dirty. Ginger snap hair with white stripes. Its tail is hairless; might be someone abused it. He stands up shakily. The hunger pains are becoming too much. The dog barks.

The dog. It wags its tongue. The poor, dirty thing. Like himself. He wondered. But how? He retreated into his box and the dog followed him. He had to eat. The dog curled up to him. He was going to die if he didn't eat. The dog licked his face. It whined and groaned until he rubbed its belly. It was nearing twilight. The streets were becoming less dense. But how could he? The dog fell asleep. He looked at its ears. Such mangled things.

Hunger was getting to him. He needed sleep now. He says a prayer to his god, then dreams about himself and the dog.