A dreary sense of loneliness came over him as he realized how everything he had brought with him from home and from the old days seemed to fall away from him and let him go his own way, forgotten and forsaken. The door to the past was barred, and he stood outside, empty-handed and alone; whatever he needed and desired he must win for himself — new friends and new shelter, new affections and new memories.

He felt as though he were wandering in the forests of the sea bottom, lost in a monstrous world where he himself was the monster. He was alone. The past was dead, the future was unimaginable

He felt misery, loneliness, a terrible need for love.

a man who loses his privacy loses everything...a man who gives it up of his own free will is a monster

As destruction goes, the monster said behind him, this is all remarkably pitiful.

There was one of his lonelinesses coming, one of those times when he walked the streets or sat, aimless and depressed, biting a pencil at his desk. It was a self-absorption with no comfort, a demand for expression with no outlet, a sense of time rushing by, ceaselessly and wastefully - assuaged only by that conviction that there was nothing to waste, because all efforts and attainments were equally valueless.

But his soul was mad. Being alone in the wilderness, it had looked within itself and, by heavens I tell you, it had gone mad.

Lonely? Yes. But a solemn, brooding, tragic loneliness that a man hates with a passion — and yet loves so much he craves for more.

I just...I just miss him. And I hate being so alone.

And so he mourned as he moved about the world, deserted and alone, lamenting his unhappiness day and night, until death's flood brimmed up in his heart.

I miss you, mourn for you, and walk the streets alone- often at night, beside, I fall asleep in tears, for your dear face, yet not one word comes back to me. If it is finished, tell me, and I will raise the lid to my box of Phantoms, and lay one more love in; but if it lives and beats still, still lives and beats for me, then say so, and I will strike the strings to one more strain of happiness before I die.

He reached for his pocket, and found there, only reality

Weeper “I hate to lose something,” then she bent her head, “even a dime, I wish I was dead. I can't explain it. No more to be said. ‘Cept I hate to lose something. “I lost a doll once and cried for a week. She could open her eyes, and do all but speak. I believe she was took, by some doll-snatching sneak. I tell you, I hate to lose something. “A watch of mine once, got up and walked away. It had twelve numbers on it and for the time of day. I'll never forget it and all I can say Is I really hate to lose something. “Now if I felt that way ‘bout a watch and a toy, What you think I feel ‘bout my lover-boy? I ain't threatening you, madam, but he is my evening's joy. And I mean I really hate to lose something.

And then he felt the misery of his life.