The collective disappointment of the past year has taken its toll. What is there to gain? Perhaps the pessimism that drains you completely of being hopeful… Loneliness is the worst during this time of year. Something in the warm air causes teenagers to be overly hormonal. They have a good time, and I wish I was one of them. Still, I am an old soul. An old, lonely, restless soul.

There is no need to be completely cynical. I’m in a city for the romantic wanderers. I stroll by them on the streets and sit next to them in the subways. I wonder if they know that I am one of them. They must know, because when I glance at them I feel the instantaneous connection. We are drawn together by out eternal pain and disability to be satisfied.

Being an artist is a gift and a curse. When I write it makes all of the suffering and isolation so worth it.