A huddle on the greasy street – cars stop, nose past, withdraw – dull glint on soles of tackety boots, frayed rough blue trousers, nondescript coat stretching back, head supported in strangers’ arms, a crowd collecting – ‘Whit’s wrang?’ ‘Can ye see’m?’ ‘An auld fella, he’s had it.’ On one side, a young mother in a headscarf is kneeling to comfort him, her three-year-old son stands puzzled, touching her coat, her shopping bag spills its packages that people look at as they loo

I don't want to kill myself but I don't wanna be here either. I don't want to carry on living like this because this isn't living this isn't a life It's the opposite, a living death I am numb Just waiting I'm just waiting for something to change Just waiting to feel something I feel trapped I feel trapped in my life I want to not exist I want to not be in existence anymore But I don't want to hurt the people around me I don't want to hurt the people that I love and the people