I feel like I'm caught in an endless cycle. It seems that no matter what I do, I keep passing that same dumpster I slept in last night, and I can't break out of all this thieving and begging.

I swipe a hood ornament from the fancy car parked alongside the road, then spy another just a few paces up. There are bottles of liquor and drugs perched invitingly behind cheap glass windows. I pull out my only real possession besides the worn-down heavy coat wrapped around my emaciated form.

I smash the glass with a crowbar and snatch the measly prize.

The hooker just a little further along is clearly an alcoholic. Giving her the drink will just feed her addiction, but I really gotta feed mine. So I hand it over and she gives me a kiss and a cigarette. Then a scary man shoves a dollar between her breasts, and away she goes to do what I don't wanna know.

I keep on walking -- it's the only way to keep the hunger off my mind. Soon I spy a store. They sell cigarettes and food, along with warm clothing. I could sure use those thick socks. But I haven't got any money, and the lady tells me to shove off.

I start to shiver, so I oblige her in her wish. Now I spy a junkie. He's not the first I've seen today, and probably won't be the last, but he's just a kid -- like me. I give him what he needs; he gives me what I need. Although neither of us really need that; we just don't have the strength to walk away.

And now a man in a suit walks in my direction. I throw myself onto the ground, grovelling like my life depends on it. In a way, my life does depend on it. But I know it'll just feed into the cycle.

I meet a pretty girl, and she seems to be interested in me. Her mother drags her away. No-one wants their children to associate with a street rat like me, living minute to minute on an addiction that's pulling me deeper and deeper.

I'm falling and I can't turn back. There's no money except for what I can beg or steal; no food because all I do is smoke cigarettes. They keep the cold away, if just for a while.

There's gotta be a better way for me, but I can't break this cycle. I give another hooker her booze; another junkie his fix. And they hand me the tiny piece of cancer that ironically is keeping me alive.

I finally have enough money to purchase from the shop, but I just can't help myself. Weakness gives way to weakness. I breathe it all in and idly flick it aside; there's nothing more to do than to keep on living this life.

And it goes on and on in an endless struggle against myself. Like Mobb Deep, it's a survival of the fit; only the strong survive. I'm neither strong nor fit, so how will I survive?

Now I've grown so very tired. I cannot keep living my life like this. I stop to think how I can change my ways, and I shiver before my legs collapse beneath my weight.

I've fallen and I can't get up. Is this the end for me?

Ulitsa Dimitrova is a game by Lea Schönfelder and Gerard Delmàs about homelessness in Russia. You can get it here.