Loneliness is a problem. Every time I hear the elevator doors open or close outside, I keep hoping for the bell to ring. I believe in super-improbable fantasies – that the women, who don’t even know I like them, will suddenly realise what they feel about me and come running to my door. I guess thats what loneliness does. But even if this actually happens ( lets say fantasies work in real life ), I dont know what exactly I am going to do then. Most probably, I will not open the door. Because this loneliness is also a cover for me, to hide all the uncouth, rough edges that have slowly come to the fore in recent years. It is an excuse for self pity, to gain sympathy from all, to be always, always bitter about life. After all, we all need to blame someone and for me its loneliness…