“There is no more Haiti” says Michla, a 22 year old street kid as we drive through, up over and around Port-au-Prince seated in the back of a pickup.  I think of the species of pride he has for his city.  “Street kid”, a term used instead of orphan, because you might know your parents, but still have nothing to do with them are the eyes through which he was watching the city crumble. I doubt he had been in a car since the earthquake.  We pass an old lady crunched in the street and Junior quickly dives in his pocket and throws three coins from the truck to the curb.  She tries to get up fast enough and two passer bys pick the money up and deliver it to her.  It’s been a couple weeks since the earthquake but those who claim the streets from the outside as home, are still mourning.  Driving around seeing the unrelenting and never ending damage started to feel like a giant movie, playing only for me.  It didn’t even seem real, I could not wrap my head around what it would feel like if this was my city.