Desperate. Chapped lips. Slouched shoulders. The man was stood outside my tertiary institution trying to sell me what he could spare. What might have meant the world to someone. Books. Politely I started to decline but paused when I realised I would have happily bought them for the sake of reading, for the years that had worn their backs. How could I? Having no cash on me was besides the point because how could someone sell something for such a low price? It could only when ever cent mattered. Ever since, guilt has accompanied the remembrance of this moment.