The opulence of the district is evident at every turn, in each shop window. Passing under the railway line, I notice a large pile of pots, pans, bottles and blankets. In the middle of this menagerie are two men, bedded down for the night. One is old and half asleep, the other young, reading a magazine. They take little notice as I walk by, their lives stacked by the roadside. At least there’s shelter under the bridge and the night is warm.
even here, a cricket sings