T’was the night before Christmas, and all through the shelter, my computer keys clicking and my hands are a swelter. The source code is glorious and working just right, In hopes that the someone would donate tonight.
The hobos and bums are all past out in their beds, while visions of sobriety dance through their heads. A man with a cheeseburger is milling around. His only possession that he found outside on the ground.
I long for a time when I can leave this place behind, and block out these memories that will surely stick in my mind. I dream of a place where these lines never intersect, and not have to beg for help from strangers on the internet.