What is it like to be when you're alone? When you're not really alone. When drinking is just a sport with the guys. A coffee keeps your mind torched through the entire night. You see people you don't recognise. And for once you've begun to overlook their pecularities. You see them in crowded places and you see them in cafes. The young and the old. In contempt of each other. You are a stranger, or an insider and you you wonder how things look from the fish bowl. You listen to music to give some theatrical influence to life. You hear about blasts and encounters yet you feel distanced. You're emotionally recharged and ideologically crippled. You feel no one's around because you aren't really there yourself. You've stopped writing notes and messages you aren't going to send. Your skills and arithmetic have loosened over the years. You carry pouches of under-or-overslept misery under your eyes. You like to walk in autumn. There is no character in piss stains of the walls. The fruitsellers are tired and the paanshops are worried about banning smoking. There is arthiritis and cancer just like in life; just like in dreams. You feel like you can write. Your imagination is a smoky voice of a writer which talks to you. Tells you stories, gives you imagery. The iPod just gives you music. The internet, history and lies.