I heard him most every day around noon, yelling and screaming at the top of his lungs in the alley below my office window. It was "F this" and "F that" and other choice words, a stream of profanity spilling forth from his troubled mind.

He was clearly in need of help, wandering the Financial District and North Beach for years, self-medicating and telling all the world of his dire need for mental health services.

In San Francisco, those cries for help fell on deaf ears.

On the morning of Wednesday, Aug. 10, police answered a call about an unresponsive man on Commercial Street. That's where they found Sean Messer, age 42, address unknown. He had died alone on a parklet in front of a Chinese restaurant.

And now, the streets and alleys of the Financial District have gone quiet.

I asked the security guard in our building about this poor soul, and he knew exactly who we were talking about.

When the history is written, years from now, we will be judged harshly for standing by helplessly while our fellow man wallowed in the depths of addiction and mental distress. For allowing hard-working merchants to fail as a result of dirty streets and filthy conditions. They'll judge us for a shocking inability to maintain order and provide compassionate care.

They'll judge us for ignoring Sean Messer's cry for help. And that is our shame to bear ... collectively.