That even though it is your words that you are penning - your own thoughts, that it’s a friend?

Some sort of company in the darkness, in the empty parts of your life?

That when loneliness drifts into every orifice; seeping into the crevices and crooks in your body, your words are your friends?

When I write, when I see the ink form variations and combinations of those 26 letters, those symbols, I feel as if the answers are staring back at me.

Perhaps not.

Perhaps this is what writers tell themselves to stop them from going off into the deep end; stop Loneliness from truly swallowing them whole.

What do I know.