I met Ulysses under a bridge in Atlanta, Georgia. He was sleeping on rocks, and said it was his favorite spot. He called it “home” and said he was happy there.
But you have to wonder, how happy a person can be when thousands of cars drive by every day, seeing him live like this, and do nothing?
Where does indifference end and invisible begin?Ulysses was sleeping on rocks, and said it was his favorite spot. Click To Tweet