Nothing grips me more than the horror of being alone -- the disquiet of having oneself at the mercy of oneself. A grown up man cries out inside everytime he comes home to an empty house, estranged from a book or the television, looking aghast at the sense of reality that has come to encompass his life. Pure desperation.
A month passes, and then another, and then another, and before long I realize that time is my enemy -- the longer I am alone, the lonelier I feel.
It's a lot of hard work, isn't it?