Lonely Alone 

"Oddly enough, more often than not, alone was all that made sense. In the way empty made you full. Filling spaces that didn't exist for other such nonsense like happiness." 

It seems forever ago that I wrote this here poem. It came to me the way all poems do. Slowly at first and then a tidal wave of emotions. Alone was my home. Emphasis on was. It's not anymore. Not really. And I'm not quite sure what to do with that. How to handle it. I find it rather annoying. A creature of habit, I shun change even if I provoke it. 

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