Every day he sits there by the chaotic streets, a pathetic little child abandoned by all.

Every day his dull, despairing eyes stare down the busy people passing him, their own worries keeping them from noticing their watcher.

In uncanny silence he holds a minuscule sign asking merely for help, for attention, for love. Rarely and furtively he'll whisper pleading words, silent cries inaudible to the citizens. Every night he curls in the cold darkness, wishing and dreaming for a pensive heart to come and save him at last.

Through the countless days, despite being in plain sight, his pitiful form seems infinitesimal, for no eyes turn to the derelict child they pass daily.

"One day," he tries to tell himself. "One day someone will come. They're just preoccupied at the moment. Maybe one day . . . Maybe . . . Just maybe . . ."

Maybe that someone can be you.

We all know this child.

He needs your help.

And he needs it now.