They tell you

They tell you what to do. This well fed people, well slept, well dressed.  Clean and loved. How can they tell you what to do from that place. How do they dare to think they can know what's best, when they don't feel the cold of the streets at night. The pain of the cheeks after the slap. The hunger that pervades all, the cold that numbs thought, the harshness of the floors and walls that hold and eat your dreams.

They want to tell you how to make it better, to feel they had made it better and then sleep confortable and warm with food and love.
Whatever they tell you, it slips away in the city wind. It can't be replicated, repeated, made routine. It can't be held in the mind of a child that's grown its best with the little food they had. That which is not part of our day to day lives disappears on a second unless it's so strange it's legendary.

They can't tell you how to live your life. They can't. Even if they do, it's like it never happened. Carried away by the hunger and cold and the rough slap of the streets.