Tired feet. A tired heart. Tired is no feeling, no? It is just a description, nothing more, nothing less. The rain fills the well in the slum and the water with all its sewage floods inside the huts. Cleaning and cleaning and again cleaning up, the effect is not much visible. A puppy, chocolate brown got electrocuted and I do not even know, why the death of a stray dog upsets me so much. Probably I am just too tired. Sometimes a group of visitors comes to the slum. Slum tours seem to be the new big thing. They all wear white t-shirts with a silly inscription printed on top. I don’t know what they are afraid of, that they got lost without their T-shirt? They stare and when they do not stare, they get out their big and expensive cameras. Click, click, click, you hear them before you see them and when they are already gone, you still hear their click, click, click. Mechanical, I think and wonder if back home, they tell with a shudder of the unbearable conditions of “that place”. They hold their cameras very firmly. They are always afraid that the people living here will steal them. They don’t get the point. The people are living here and they are wandering through their living-rooms. They are never wondering if they are stealing anything. Sometimes the visitors ask me. They always ask questions as if they find themselves in a horror movie. “Are there many homocides?” “Do people die here from the bubonic plague?” “How many people die of Dengue fever?” Do the men rape their women?”No, no, no, no, I say. Sometimes I wish I could shout and shout at them that the people here are just dying from diarrhoea, because there are no toilets and the water is contaminated. You understand? It is as simple as that. Death is simple and frequent here. The visitors are clearly disappointed. Then they are gone but the rain is still here and we fill more and more buckets with muddy water till I forget my name and just remember that I am tired. So very, very tired.