Get a father. Put a big heart in it, a diagnosis that weighs even just hearing about it, the voices and the alcohol. Add up a grief, then another loss, then one, two breakups, an escape and surrender. Add a son, then another and another. Put in it a woman who loses love, but who doesn't give up and doesn't step aside. Then put the fragmentation into it: people dispersing. A group that is disintegrating, a core that goes away.

People homeless they live locked up in a plurality of cages, invisible but tangible, from which it seems impossible to get out. Guarantee him one property in which to live, following the Housing First model, is the most effective tool to give them back freedom and the dignity they deserve.

My granddaughters have a cloth hut. Inside there is a little bit of everything. The parents, me, the grandmother and all the people they are connected to put in there. The hut has windows and they choose when to lower or raise the blinds. The hut is there, in their room. Sometimes they play it, sometimes they prefer to stay elsewhere.