We got a letter a while back from this homeless guy but when we tried to track the guy down to get a picture, we found out he was in hospital with a punctured lung. He's now out and we have a photo to accompany his rather interesting letter. Read it after the jump.Dear Vice,
Poverty and survival has never been issues for me. I used to live in a van - that was luxury, but Stockholm is not a nice place when every pig knows who you are and the winter is coming. And when a friend offered me a space in Barcelona with him, I mean, I may be stupid but I take a chance when I see one.Me and my broad Fia spent eight months at his place, until I came home one day and my friend was trying to rape Fia, so I stabbed him through the arm with a chef's knife.
He moved out and we got the contract.I was so fucking proud - my own place! But still, if you've been living on the street then you're always going to be drawn to that crowd. I started bringing people home - jugglers, junkie-punks, thieves and that's when I started shooting smack again. I was never really comfortable with the apartment and Fia was working at an Irish bar from evening to morning, so like any good man I became jealous. One night when I was fucked on smack, ketamine and speed, I destroyed the apartment. I'm not surprised that she left immediately, but I never touched her.Things went downhill from then - no money, no roof. But I did meet a Swedish girl and her Czech boyfriend; they lived on the beach with their two dogs and I started hanging out with them. She would give me smack for free so I would keep her company, since I was Swedish. After a while I went to the Centre, that's where I had my skateboard
and junky buddies that I could drink with. And that's when I met Mike and René.They had both been living on the street for a long time - René since he was six. They showed me the good spots for food and booze, and somehow I became friends with the security guards at the supermarket. They would sometimes give me €10 or €20 and food for Lita - have I mentioned Lita? Shit, anyways I was partying with these German guys
and their dog at my makeshift shed I'd made from random garbage. The dog, named Lita, was sleeping on my jacket when the German started beating her with a stick, I just went nuts and smashed him with my shopping cart, fucking idiot. After that, Lita was never further than three metres away from me. She wouldn't let me pet her for two weeks, then suddenly she snuck up on me, licked the back of my neck and curled up in my lap. It felt better than when I became a father. Maybe I didn't always have food for us but I always shared equally. Without dogs it would be a lot harder to live on the street. Dogs find shit.Later I squatted a "house" in the mountains with Mike and a guy named Mexico. The building had three walls and we built a roof out of a plastic tarpaulin and metal rods. It was all right until the snow came. I woke up one night and a tree had fallen over the house and it pinned me down. For some reason I was sleeping with an axe in my bed that night so I got myself out. Next thing a landslide nicked our porch. I had to leave, but it's still my house. How many punks do you know that can say they have a house in Spain?I went back to the Centre but if you're known for sharing, people are going to take for granted that you're holding the tab. I went to the Swedish Embassy again but they wouldn't help me. I've got kids in Sweden you know, and I don't want to fucking die in a scag den. I was a bit down until I met some Swedes - they brought me back to their place and let me stay. There was really only one guy who didn't want me there. The others were squatters but he was playing landlord, fucking curlhead. Then Mike kinda squatted their couch and I got the blame for it. At their house I met Douglas. He was crippled but could walk on his knees. He would never complain and always smiled. He gave me the strength to get my shit together and hitchhike back to Sweden.I have cancer, but it's not the reason why I live this way. You can't sit in the street and feel sorry for yourself. I beg for money with pride and go on living in my own world. In Sweden it's illegal to beg. I got charged €60 by the pigs in Sweden for taking stale bread from the rubbish bin. "I'm hungry," I said and the cops answered, "Then buy it." Obviously I didn't pay the fine and I still dine that way. I'm satisfied with my life, I don't feel cheap because I don't have anything, I've got my friends and my dog, that's my wealth. I'm a fucking rich bum.SENSELESSPhotos by Anti Zurowski
Poverty and survival has never been issues for me. I used to live in a van - that was luxury, but Stockholm is not a nice place when every pig knows who you are and the winter is coming. And when a friend offered me a space in Barcelona with him, I mean, I may be stupid but I take a chance when I see one.
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He moved out and we got the contract.I was so fucking proud - my own place! But still, if you've been living on the street then you're always going to be drawn to that crowd. I started bringing people home - jugglers, junkie-punks, thieves and that's when I started shooting smack again. I was never really comfortable with the apartment and Fia was working at an Irish bar from evening to morning, so like any good man I became jealous. One night when I was fucked on smack, ketamine and speed, I destroyed the apartment. I'm not surprised that she left immediately, but I never touched her.Things went downhill from then - no money, no roof. But I did meet a Swedish girl and her Czech boyfriend; they lived on the beach with their two dogs and I started hanging out with them. She would give me smack for free so I would keep her company, since I was Swedish. After a while I went to the Centre, that's where I had my skateboard
and junky buddies that I could drink with. And that's when I met Mike and René.They had both been living on the street for a long time - René since he was six. They showed me the good spots for food and booze, and somehow I became friends with the security guards at the supermarket. They would sometimes give me €10 or €20 and food for Lita - have I mentioned Lita? Shit, anyways I was partying with these German guys
and their dog at my makeshift shed I'd made from random garbage. The dog, named Lita, was sleeping on my jacket when the German started beating her with a stick, I just went nuts and smashed him with my shopping cart, fucking idiot. After that, Lita was never further than three metres away from me. She wouldn't let me pet her for two weeks, then suddenly she snuck up on me, licked the back of my neck and curled up in my lap. It felt better than when I became a father. Maybe I didn't always have food for us but I always shared equally. Without dogs it would be a lot harder to live on the street. Dogs find shit.
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