I rode my bike past a man alone tonight.

Alone as in physically alone, not with anyone, but also much more alone as in not having anyone, anywhere, at all.

Everything about him, from the way he put the cigarette to his mouth to how he moved one foot in front of the other to how his right arm nervously and hardly noticeably swung as he walked, it all said the same thing: I am alone. And I am aware of it, I can hardly see anything else. And it’s killing me.

There are enough men alone in the world, aren’t there?