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The usual post-dinner sludge of loneliness. Filling it with pastimes that are neither worth writing about, nor worth remembering. I’ve gotten used to these hours, which seem so empty after the fact. So quickly has it become the usual after a strange two years of always something. An emptiness, not worth describing. A loneliness that can’t be given meaning through writing or thinking about it. An existence that is so very much, just passing the time. It’s come to the point where I tend to prefer this unspeaking loneliness, over an hour or two in company. Especially if that company is of the awkward degree of acquaintanceship, where we know the basic facts of each others’ lives, but we’ve never really ventured forth. We’ve never discussed things which are closer to our hearts, more important to our existence, the things which weigh on our souls, which define our daily doings or future dreams. These things would be worth going out for. Those conversations should be had at every opportunity. But if instead of that, it’s sipping beers, awkwardly waiting for the next turn in conversation to follow, then I prefer the usual.