Dignity, a concept I had once taken for granted, became a luxury I could no longer afford. The basic acts of hygiene, of self-care, were impossible. My clothes were grimy and torn, my hair matted, my face etched with the grim lines of hardship. The simple act of looking in a shop window and seeing my reflection was a shock, a stark confirmation of how far I had fallen. The man I saw was a stranger, his eyes hollow, his spirit seemingly broken. It was a portrait of despair, a visual testament to the corrosive power of addiction and the brutal unforgiving nature of the streets.
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