Homeless
To wake up under the bridge and know that thousands of people are walking overhead, and to feel the cold bite of the ground through your patched winter coat, which is all you have even in the summer. To match, or not match, with the old spotted pants that are too tight and worn.
Breakfast, lunch, and dinner, one must be picked, since the others are non-existent, if you're lucky. It's a cutthroat world and all you have for support is the trash can behind the steak shop, the homeless shelter down the road, is over packed, too busy, and who would want to go there, when you can go anywhere in the world, just hopping on a train and going there.
Life is short, especially when winter comes, and the sting and the cold is too much when you have nowhere to go. The breeze that pushed the blizzards towards you is strong, forceful, the tree provided no shelter. The abandoned house has no room, for it is filled with bony cats and an old woman with a butcher's knife. There is no bridge, for there is no water, no cliffs. The ground is flat, unhelped by the war that winter pushes, growing stronger each year. You must move, push on, through the snow drifts, stumbling to reach the trains. They pull out, you head south, pushing through the borders of each state.
Until you are caught and dragged off to jail. No one, nowhere to go, until the young girl who looks like you walks in.