There is a man who lives in a tent.

He lives in a tent on a tree-lined grass verge on the side of a busy road.

I see him every morning.

I watch through the window of my car as he packs up his tent, carefully folding his home into a bag that he heaves upon his back, carrying it with him for the day.

A human snail.

I feel implicitly guilty.

Guilty that I have a car. A heated home. Running water. A fridge full of food.

Guilty that he has nothing and I have everything.

And yet who am I to compare my everything to his nothing?

Maybe he has everything he needs.

Right there.

In his tent.

And I, the one with everything, is always wanting more.