Nostalgia is a horrible place to be in. It is a drug that caresses softly but scrapes to the depth of my inner solitude - the everlasting sadness that only a lonely man can understand. In a world, filled with the dreams of millions and in houses the lights burn bright and yellow, I can feel lives are being shared. And though the sharing may at times be hard they may as well at times be just as soothing. From my silent perch I can but only guess about the magnitude of their feelings and while I may stare from my darkness I cannot, through all my imaginations recreate the reality of an embrace. Those that are perhaps hurt by someone have had more in-touch with the world than I, for I am far removed from the tortures of sharing but such abandonment renders me a guest. Or perhaps just a floating feather, aimless and no longer serving its purpose, just roaming. From the corners of diners, I watch the other tables and am no longer disgusted by others' company. It isn't that I miss it; I simply cannot miss it for I have never had it. I can't curse them for I know not what it is that they have and just the same, I can't feel happy for them. As my solitary steps take me back to my world of my unquestioned whims, I am lost once again in an abstract. That this is my reality but what can it be if it is never shared. If my words fall only into an abyss of silence, where my logic can never contradict me, where my ways are forever straight - it is just me in front of a wall. What life?