You don’t fear death, but you won’t die right away. It’s worse than smoking: that’s saying something.
Please save me. Anything helps, never mind my desperation. Don’t walk away! I don’t like me either, but I’ve got to go on.
I know most of us have been here before, but these people look so well-fed. The crumbs they throw my direction are insulting. Distractions for me, to keep your appearances. I’ll hate myself even more in hour when I’m begging for more.
There is no shortage, and I’m a good guy down on his luck. All it took to fall from the table, away from grace, would make me laugh if my sides didn’t hurt.
As you learn to eat off the streets, you make friends with others on the ground. Metal illness contributes, but some of them are just like me only older and more scared. After a certain point you’re the state’s problem, and no-one but strangers will feed you. I’ve been scared before and I’m scared now, but I’ve never known fear like what I see in their eyes.
If I ever get out of this, and I think I will. I’ll never visit these new friends I’ve found. I know it’s not contagious but not everyone does, and I can’t afford the association. It might hurt to see what it’s doing to people like them, so I’ll close my eyes and contribute implicitly.