Alone

O Solitude! where are the charms that sages have seen in thy face?

Ours is a particularly unpopulated land, an empire of cold hearths and empty homes. One travels for miles upon its avenues without meeting another soul, looking into lonely shops and abandoned assemblies. The street lamps glow behind the swaying boughs of quiet trees, where no one sleeps and no dog stirs. An uneasy silence haunts tombstone cities, whose unrestful citizens flit through the skies like shades on errands in the afterworld. I miss the warm sunlight on the smiling face of a young companion, the smell of grass and the grit of the road sparkling in the afternoon light. Here one's friends vanish without a trace and leave behind a bereaved regret that accumulates in barren corners. I have journeyed alone over most of the world; yet there are few places as still and sad as these empty islands, these monuments to idle fancy, these half-eaten leavings on the board after the wedding party has left.

We are a withdrawn race leading lives solitary, longing for touch and smell and sound and warmth. Do not fail to greet me when I pass by: our happy conjunctions are like stars in the empty firmament, tiny and bright, that trace constellations of wonder and meaning upon the void.