A man lay there, in tattered clothing. His was scraggly, from weeks of not shaving, his hair unkept as well. He smelled of B.O. and alcohol.

       The man stood up to his full height, and felt the slight hang-over from the previous night. His gaze was unsteady, his hands shook, and his knees wobbled. Still, he left the alley-way, and headed down the street.

       It was an early Sunday morning, which meant the Soup Kitchen would be open. It took a great effort got him to make the trip, but he always did. The Kitchen held his only decent meal for the week. His energy was always sapped by the end of his short journey. But he never failed to get his bowl and wait in line.

       Sometimes just lifting the spoon to his mouth was achore in itself. Though he always did it. The other street rats and urchins wondered why he allowed his meager existence to continue.

       He often didn't have the strength, just barely able to nod his head. The answer satisfied the others that week, but the next one, it was always brought up again.

       The meal ended, as it always does, and the man brought his bowl and spoon back to the counter. The attendant always smiled as he gave it back, and she did so this time as well. The may have been too weak, or un-caring, but he never noticed the pain hidden beneath the cheery grin.

       Again, the frail, old man made his journey back to the alleyway, It was usually dark when he returned, as it was this night.

       The man found a reserve of strengh he didn't he possessed, and made it to the box spring he slept on.

       One time, when he was asked why he continued to live, he was able to answer with words, so he did. 'Because I can, and I will.'