"Can I get you some fresh solitude, sir?"

I never thought I would find myself there again. I mean, maybe every so often, I would think about going back, but I never actually thought I would. It's kind of funny how it all worked out. You know, I started writing because of her, though I doubt she knows that. I had this game I would play: I would take one feature of hers, whichever I thought to be most prominent that day, and I would apply it to the outside world. I don't know if you, reader, understand what I mean by that, but I'm sure you've done the same and never even noticed. Anyway, that's why I started writing. She used to write too, you know. Actually, she wrote quite a bit. Her, myself, and a mutual friend of ours, would write endless poetry, epic tales, and silly skits that only we would read. And it was always refreshing to come home and read something original, and know that you are friends with the author of this fabulous work that would, once again, go undiscovered. I'm straying from the point. I won't edit the stray parts, I'm just going to apologize. 

She left not too long ago. I would imagine it was because she has moved on, or lost interest (which had always been very hard to keep). Whatever the reason may be, the truth remains: she is gone. I can still use her as a muse (though I don't much like the idea of "using" anyone), but I think I have moved on too. Not to a new place though. I don't think I will every leave, really. My muse, however, has grown up. It is older, more isolated, and far less understanding. I'm finding that a lot of childhood memories are coming back. Some of them good, others are bad. I'm finding that emotion is starting to take control. It is no longer a question of aesthetics, not by any means. I don't mean to say that when the sun climbs over the concrete trees of Manhattan, and fires right through an ocean of sunglasses, splitting its light in ten million different directions that I don't get chills. I still do, but it's not what I write about anymore. I catch myself taking comfort in solitude. I suddenly "relate" to being alone; objects that are alone. I'm not upset, and I'm not scared really. I'm jut enjoying my time alone. I miss her terribly though. But maybe she's the best friend I will ever have, because she never fails to inspire me. She said goodbye, and we all left our scribbles on her notebook, but that was enough to help me find a new place to lay my head. And maybe she knows, but I don't think so. But then again, maybe she knows...