OK," she said. "Let's try. But remember one thing. You're going to lose interest. At some point, it will happen. You don't think so now, but you'll get distracted. You have to stay with me. If we have a family together, you have to be here to help.

Tell me what happens next, after my body has frozen. When I can't communicate. What will I be?

I descended into solitude so thick that conversations with repairmen became anxious social occasions.

I fear I've become a "confirmed solitary" after all, despite everyone's best attempts at getting me more socialized. One becomes accustomed to one's solitude, and it begins to seem rather phony to try to reach out.

It is distressing how often we repeat ourselves. When we ask questions, we know the answers already. We've grown accustomed to horizontal communication, flatlining banalities and droning insignificance.