Even the solitary window panel separating the one window of the apartment from the alley was lonely.  The thin purple cotton, stretched too thin, barely covered the small window.  The dirty panes, when exposed, only provided a glimpse of exactly 19 bricks of the adjacent apartment's wall.  The inside of the apartment is a mess of fabric swatches and secondhand wigs.  The only clear space on the table is occupied by an ancient sewing machine, now useless, since the power has been cut off.  The water was the next to go.  And sitting by that shamed window, a lonely transvestite pees into a Pepsi can, cursing his inability to function in any normal sort of manner.

There's a small house, ancient and terrifying looking.  Somehow it has weathered the storm of housing developments springing up on all sides.  Yet, despite its ability to stay standing, the oblong windows and 30 year shingle roofs of the neighbors seem to make the paint peel quicker, the porch boards rot with a more aggressive mildew, and the weeds quicker to strangle the shrubs.  A family lives there, although it looks as if it should be condemned.  Four children share one bedroom and the bathroom sink doesn't work.  This week, the front left tire on the old car parked outside went flat and now the house is dark.  The mother of the family gives her children a battery operated lantern and lights some candles.  She tells the kids that they can play camp-out tonight.  Her children are happy without their Sponge Bob cartoon, pretending to roast marshmallows over a construction paper fire while the mother, afraid to open the refrigerator in fear that the milk will spoil before morning, sits in stunned solace, cursing her inability to function in any normal sort of manner.

There's a warehouse of sanctuary off the highway in a dreary town.  It's the type of place where no one asks if you are a Good Christian before they feed you.  There are bags of clothes and you can take what you want.  You can smoke inside and no one asks you why you need to use a free shower if you can afford cigarettes.  The woman ran this place on the leftovers of her rich husband's life insurance policy has died.  She lived in a warm house where the darkness was optional and any problem that could be solved with money was not really a problem at all.  The do-gooders managed to keep the doors open through Thanksgiving, but wore thin on the swearing and stench of humanity.  No one came to unlock the doors, but the usual suspects figured a way around that.  For a few days now, there has been food and card games, but this evening, the darkness crossed the threshold and had a seat at the table which always rang with light.  And now, huddled on piled up clothing, seven souls fumble for Bic lighters, trying to find an alternative source of light, cursing their inability to function in any normal sort of manner.

I'm Sheza and I got carried away when I forgot to pay my electric bill.