Solitude

Streetlights cast a dull yellow glow, reflecting the rickety wooden storefront facades along Union Street. Fog settles densely in the silent autumn night, wrapping the short block in a glowing sepia blanket. It is four in the morning: a time when all truly sane men in this small Ohio town are settled comfortably in their beds. Yet on the corner, staring blankly into the night, looms a lone figure in a long dark coat. Motionless and silent, he would have been frightening were there even a single soul to witness his eerie vigil. There is not. This is his time. Nobody else knows that, but it is true nonetheless. Alone. He is always alone. But with that solitude comes power, for is not power merely the ability to control all those in your presence? In the absence of outside opposition, the lone man has that control, for the self becomes the entirety of the world he inhabits. He is lord and master in that place and time, unopposed in his control over all he sees. This grasp is tenuous indeed, for with the mere approach of another soul, his power is lost. That is why he occupies the depths of night, where he can stand alone and strong. In the luminous fog on this now deserted street, he finds himself the god of an empty kingdom. Lord over nobody, but lord just the same. Nothing in all the world can compare with such an experience as this. Nothing.