Freezing… rests his head in a pillow made of concrete, again
Oh, feeling… maybe he’ll see a little better set of days
Oh, hand out…. faces that he sees time and again, ain’t that familiar
Oh, girlfriend… he can’t have when he’s happy, he looks insane.
- Pearl Jam, “Even Flow”
Ten, Epic Records (1992)
It wasn’t depressing; it’s still one of those normal sights whenever I go back to my apartment late at night. She sleeps there, along with her very few possessions and the pile of junk she has collected from the afternoon. Perhaps she’s made of sterner, sturdier stuff than most of us do; very few of us ever had to have to sleep on a pile of cardboard boxes and plastic sheets. Amidst the noise of tricycles and jeepneys still plying their routes in the wee hours of the morning, she sleeps, gathering what energy she can when the Sun rises.
She’s the kind of person, I guess, who would take both the high road and the low road at the same time. She would be picking up recyclables like cans and plastic from trash bins and gutters and garbage piles, but she probably would be the kind who would tug at your sleeve at the Andok’s outlet just by the corner.