It's always too late.

Segments of a battered American landscape.  Niland, California - Mr. Leonard Knight.

And there he was.  Sprawled out on a table, 79 years old, alone. A sleeping bag he was lying on top of, a huge plastic jug of water on the table next to him, a thin yellow rope attached to a drinking cup.  He was snoring.  I had no idea what to do and went back outside to my car.  I sat there for a half an hour in the stifling heat.  No idea where to go, I decided to sit there, hoping he would wake up.  He did wake up.  He hobbled out of his hand-built, clay tribute to God and wandered over to my car.  I’ve never seen anyone light up the way he did at the sight of a stranger.