I am not lonely when I am alone. I only feel loneliness looking at the back of the smart phone sitting opposite and as the silence thickens, I realize how less lonely I’d feel if I were by myself. You ever stand in front of the mirror, looking at the strange old man with the perplexed look on his face, eyes casting about trying to make contact with you? There he is, looking at you with his wrinkled, blemished skin, saggy and mottled instead of taut and tan, with fat where muscle used to reside. Do you try to pretend he’s not you? Do you deny him? Scented shaving cream applied, razor in hand, and you suddenly wonder why bother? Why, instead of shaving grey whiskers from a slack, jowly jaw line, do you not just cut your throat? According to Algerian playwright and philosopher, Albert Camus, “There is but one truly serious philosophical problem and that is suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy. All the rest