Now if you think carefully though better you not, because all thinking is fraught with ideas of an antique stamp bearing marks of worries time immemorial. Bearing scratches of doggie paws with the bone on the inside of the door. So it appeared to me when in this august time of the arrival of her I read that all of them are lonely, dejected, depressed, dislocated, desultory, disinclined, indisposed with the sign of rain over the window, and their mind arrested in that sunny time back home. like they are ticklish with melancholy but not sure where to scratch. And it absolutely is no match for the reading public, the discerning readers, who innocently turn pages for inspiration and vigour to find a cockroach on the bed that was human before waiting for breakfast. Or a goat just about with his head above the water in the well that was quite a swimmer before. No no it wont do at all to say that lonely is the new lovely. No no to say im not coming back home. The lay reader doesn’t know that you are feeling bad, sorry, frustrated, disappointed, dissatisfied with no direction home. He is a cherub (if it’s a she oh then what can I say — bellisima?) who doesn’t understand these things. All of life’s mysteries were laid bare to him when that girl back in the time of apples for breakfast had told him peter pan wears no undies. Now all you metaphysical poets cant insist word in and word about this regurgitating heart of ours that you are very lonely. Write when you next to say that you’ve been in the rain and heard a mother tell her child, while crossing the street, are you blind. Couldn’t you see there was a puddle there. But stick mostly to descriptions of that child seized with the imp of mischief.