Samuel Shats

From the adjacent parking lot, a hidden gaze to the wasteland,  its visitors and their struggles. Registering the inexorable passage of time in that sub-world of the world, where the marginalized beings of the city live side-by-side, touching one another without touching one another, loving perhaps. In this refuge, the dirty mattresses, the empty cartons, the old armchairs give a little warmth to their sad lives. The end arrives. The call of  progress precipitates the new reality.