To the thousands left in worries wait.
The Tenderloin is San Francisco’s last front. Money kills soul. SF is money, and the TL has none. Soul lies in the neighborhood’s heritage, soul spills through the color, slowly turning. Changing, disappearing. The streets are filled, not with warriors, but with fallen soldiers. Men and women ravaged by the ills of poverty. The colorless invaders refuse to notice, eyes forward, looking past the vanquished. No signs of empathy, just slight notions of sympathy. Rising costs, exponentially rising costs, mean that those who still stand struggle. A sense of community is built around the bottle, ready to overflow. Drowning in in the toxicity of urbanization, a flood of wealth with no raft. The gravestone laid foreshadows the possibilities to come. This is the Tenderloin. 2015.