Dirty needles, paper cups and cigarette buts lie strewn across the cold concrete floor.  The pungent stench of urine hangs heavy in the air.  Nausea rises and I quickly move away.  Tramping the streets in search of a place to rest my weary body, I settle inside a doorway for an hour or so on the edge of a seedy street with many empty buildings.  I sit alone inside my well-used grubby sleeping bag and wait, waiting for a kind stranger to spare me a little change for a hot cuppa. I  stare vacantly into space with nothing to occupy my mind. A few people scurry by occasionally throwing the odd penny or two onto the surface of the bag and I thank them for their kindness in a gruff voice.  Strong feelings of loneliness combined with tiredness and fatigue weigh heavy. I am hoping that tomorrow might be different. Tired of the daily fight for survival, I begin to wonder if there’s any hope. I soon get moved on by the police.  “You can’t stay here. You’ll have to move on”.  I’ve become desensitised to this sort of treatment.