Last in a two-part series O n a typical Saturday evening, I stroll around the bustling streets of Shibuya with my friends, dressed up, heels clicking, ready to hit a couple of trendy shops. The chilly breeze puffs up the hairs on my arms and I shudder — winter is approaching. We chat about school, boys, life, this girl's shoes, that lady's bag, when suddenly — like the zoom lens of a camera — my focus shifts. Under the roof of a closed shop lays a dark mound: a homeless man. I have an immediate desire to rush over, offer money — do something. My eyes stare, my brain buzzes with ideas. My legs, however, keep moving. It's no use, I think. Money runs out, and what would he use it for — drugs, alcohol, cigarettes? So I walk on.