Man is alone in life. He’s alone in his cradle as he’ll be alone on his deadbeat; he’s alone in love…
—Michel de Ghelderode, Stealing from Death (translated by George MacLennan)
Alone in a house, on a bus, in the middle of a field. Alone in a room.
Alone in your efforts, in your struggle, in your pain.
Yet, somehow alone does not mean swimming in a sea of silent nothingness. On the contrary, barring meditative states, it means alone with your thoughts. And the nonsense that swills around in there, between Willing the Future and Judging the Past, can be quite an imaginatively torturous pandemonium—a stampeding herd of dinosaurs makes less of a fuss.