This is something different for me, a prose writing. I liked writing this way, it flows.

Alone With His Thoughts

There is no great full moon. The star's twinkle is actually little more than a dull-grey tint. There are no grandiose occurences or a wonderful fanfare. There's just a man, sat, alone, with his thoughts. He'd tried integrating into society. Really, he'd given all that he had to give, to the point where he became rather weary of his constant efforts. But he always felt underwhelmed with society as a whole.

Nobody ever really understood the man. He's alone, constricted. He's bordering on psychosis, and what's worse, his fingernails are dirty. The man has been rather unkempt for a while. But he soldiers on, he's a trooper after all, it's his nature. But the man has never needed anything other than his thoughts.

You see, this man decided that the best thing in life was thought. It was his best friend. It was his only friend. Moreover, it was really the only friend that he'd ever needed, intangible chemical impulses would have a hard time stabbing you in the back, after all, they're your chemicals.

But one day, in his self-enforced isolation, he began to long for company. It was strange, he'd never really felt a need for it before. It wasn't really a feeling that he liked, either. He had decided that feeling lonely was rather negative. And also, it was oddly cold. Nobody's ever really given as much thought as they should to the temperature values of being lonely. It ought to be a geological study, in this narrator's opinion.

He didn't require anything special of said company. He asked for no trinkets or gifts. In fact, all that the man wanted, was for someone to share these thoughts with.

It would have mattered very little, really, whether they even agreed with him. They could have thought his thoughts to be preposterous, for all he cared. Just a little human interaction would save him from his boredom. And boredom is a terrible waste of time.

The man didn't want to waste time, he never had. He was vehemently against procrastinating, "if you're going to live", he would say, (to himself, of course), "then live well. If you're not, you might as well just end it really, you're only wasting your efforts."

So, he decided that he wanted a companion of some sorts. A talking buddy.
But there was nobody available. The man had made himself rather unexposed.
In fact, unexposed to the point where he couldn't find anyone to converse with.

So he had an idea. "I'll talk to myself", he said. "I've done it for quite a long time already, so there's no need for practice". A capital plan, indeed. So the man talked to himself, sometimes for hours on end.

He'd compliment himself. Flirt with himself. Have sex with himself.
Though he'd done the last one before any sort of epiphany, thoughts don't participate in coitus that often.

He was overall, a rather happy man. Or at least, happier than the people who allowed themself to be hurt. Hurt by other people, which is, obviously, rather impossible when you talk to yourself.

But the man couldn't help feeling empty somehow. It felt like he was half a man. He wasn't, obviously. He had two arms, two legs; he was a fine figure of a human.

He just felt a bit lonely.