To be alone is to be entirely your self. Well, as much as an individual constitutes a self.

(You can bike 6 miles to consume an unusual pastry. And screw it, follow that up with a frivolous coffee flight and museum visit.

(You can quietly seethe at the golf course you have to walk through, and the European’s sculpture of Le Chinois, the Chinese man.

(And you can walk to the beach and take pictures of amazingly ugly rocks. And the backs of strangers clearly having a moment from embarrassing angles.

(And you can overwhelm yourself trying to imagine the lives of passersby, people at the beginning and end of their lives.

(And you can wonder if you belong in the city, if you really belong.

(And you can cry a little - no tears, just counted square hexadecimal breath - in 0, 1, 2, 3 hold 4, 5, 6, 7 out 8, 9, A, B wait C, D, E, F.

In F, E, D, C hold B, A, 9, 8 out 7, 6, 5, 4 wait 3, 2, 1, 0.)

And you can send your friends your resume for remote jobs, in both TeX for the inclined and PDF for the practical.)

And you can feel the brag of your heart - I am. I am. I am.)

And you can look at your recent photos and delete some for no conscious reason.)

And you can catch yourself still wearing the museum admission sticker and wrap it around your pinky. Then try to flick it in the trash, and miss. Then pick it off the lip of the can and pretend you made it in the first time. Touchdown!)

And you can finish the last half of the pastry, as you ride the whole line end to end back. Weird, and weird, and weird, fine.)

Spend enough time by your self, nearly unspeaking, and you’ll lose your self. You are no longer gazing at the world; you fuse into the world gazing at it self.