Thick, choking smog, a cloud of the lost inhabitants’ souls, hovers in the air. The men and women, some adults, some prematurely aged children, pose for the regulars slumping by. A grizzly man, with grey tufts of hair protruding from his chin decides upon a young, strung-out girl of about seventeen. A just-barely-covering-anything faded purple mini skirt hangs from her jutting hipbones and her breasts are hardly concealed by a grimy black bra, clashing with her sunlight-deprived flesh. The smirk behind the man’s yellowed eyes reveals ungentlemanly thoughts and torturous acts of lust. Yet, she clings to him, her “doll,” and bounces around, the ever-lively party of the (old man’s) night. As the man tugs roughly at her to hurry her into the truck, a worn hunk of metal and duct tape, she flicks her cigarette to the soiled sidewalk. The tiny flame begs to be rejuvenated with the puffing of a lost one’s lungs, but its silent screams for safety go unheard (ignored) by the people, ragged broken puppets. Stone expressions devour their empathy. The cigarette accepts its fate and burns out with the resonance of crashing hope.