Is it not sad that I should feel more at home among the silent, verbose tomes of the world's poetry and non-fiction?
Should my company not be among my peers? But who, are my peers? I have non that match my age. I have only those older than who are of my mental peerage, and I state that no to boast.
More or less, I am alone in the classification of my youth. Hamlet lends me consolation when I am depressed. Sonnets when I am in and out of love. Athol Fugard, a feast of exquisitely chosen words.
With whom may I meld minds? With whom may I quest the stars in the heavens? Discuss philosophy, art, religion, faith, science, life?
None that are here now. None that are in my love.