Origins

As he gazed down on what could have very well been the sad street corner where he had been born, a single Filet-O-Fish wrapper drifted on by, carried by currents of air as invisible as the people who called this pitiful scrap of land home. That there was trash everywhere was not a revelation. There was always trash lying around: paper, plastic, or flesh, but lifeless all the same. Every so often, the plaintive wail of a newborn child pierced the dank air, giving the alley a sorely needed spark of life. But this burst of energy that spurred the limbs of the worn-down and beaten bodies scattered across the neighborhood lasted but a second, as fleeting as a child's life was likely to be in this concrete jungle; a solitary flash in a pan of ooze and darkness. The children quickly learned to emulate the lethargy and stupor that engulfed them from the moment they entered this cruel world. Though the sun occasionally filtered through the rusty, dilapidated boards of buildings barely holding together, none of the light was reflected in the eyes that seemed to peek out from every shadow. Strangers who had the misfortune of wandering into this land-locked bermuda triangle could only hope they were lucky enough to make it back out with their hopes and dreams still intact. As for those born to the sorrow and hopelessness that pervaded not only the people, but the very cobblestones on which they walked, it would take nothing short of an Act of God for one of them to make it out alive. But what God giveth, God taketh away as well, if only to remind the slum people of their proper place in the world.