It's a title of an old Bukowski poem (or maybe one of his books, no you're not Googling it): You Get So Alone At Times It Just Makes Sense. Three-quarters of your life you've held that phrase nearby, three-quarters of your life you've decorated the dull walls inside your mind with those words. The end of a day when everything you touched fell apart in one way or another. In the aftermath, the mind floats airy and abstract.
Not self-indulgence, not navel-gazing, not moodiness. Those are defined by intent and the shapes of a moment or a string of moments. This is a weariness, a weak wave of the hand. There's not enough coffee, you're too old to get drunk. The ceaseless pushing forward continues, the mud slowing you down more each step. But you press forward. It's what you do; the alternate holds no interest. Your friend reminded you about an old Fleetwood Mac album and you play it. You want to build something as exquisite as their temple of sound. No one is giving you money or cocaine. You scrape a few words together instead. No temple are they, maybe a ramshackle hut. You can pray at both.
You get so alone, and it does make sense.
