I went to a Starbucks today; I hate their coffee, but I live in an “upscale” neighborhood, which means that Starbucks is the only place one can go and sit for awhile without spending $40 on drinks. I finished my book, finally, but not without considerable distraction; I know I am fundamentally a loner, even a bit afraid of other people, but I still (still!) can’t help watching longinly as cute girls pass within my field of view. My heart breaks a hundred times a day. It’s juvenile, this attachment to others, the desire for beauty and love, the belief in “love” as an abstract entity, the hope for companionship and empathy and common interest, but I simply can’t shake it. At my root, I am thus juvenile. I still fight the urge to dislike everyone I encounter, even if they blow smoke in the faces of the people behind them, even if they walk three abreast on a narrow sidewalk, even if they drive without signalling or stopping at stop signs, even if they spit on the sidewalk, or walk their dogs in the public park, or smell bad, or yap incessantly and insipidly with their loud and stupid companions, or do any of the myriad little things that don’t quite qualify as crimes but nevertheless reveal the depth of inconsideration and frivolty of the general public. I still desperately want not to hate them, not to despise them, not to find them in contempt of all that is or could be beautiful in humanity. But I have yet ever to meet, face to face, another human who shares any of my greater sympathies, who has read Chamfort (or even heard of Chamfort), whose spirit soars with mine when discussing the development of institutions for the betterment of mankind, who understands and desires and loves like I do. I have never met anyone with whom I could discuss any of the things I hold most dear in the world.

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