springularity

---

I’m no hermit, but I sympathize with the monkish way of life: highly away from chaotic city life below.

Love of solitude may have mystique, but it’s mostly cause for being forgotten—which is OK: Sought aloneness isn’t lonely.

Coincidently, when I went to bed last night, I realized again
(as I do sometimes) that I’m glad no one’s in bed with me.
I cherish the silence, reverie fading to sleep. So it goes when everyone you’ve loved is dead.

Daily, I cherish the hours at my desk, my keyboard, my tens of open-ended writing projects. As I “told” Jacques, I’m “never lonely, you know, just so singular, solitudinous by now.”

And I’m alone with “you,” whomever I keep near to mind.