I’ve been gazing at you from across the room for a while now and I think you’re aware of this because, on occasion, I see you raising your head to look in my direction. But all this cigarette smoke stubbornly lingers around both our upper bodies – such a poorly executed wedding veil - and our eyes stay partially hidden from one another, so I can’t be sure. However, I swear, even from here, from across this room, your loneliness feels palpable. I could cut it with a knife or hit it with a hammer. And I ceaselessly wonder if my loneliness looks the same form where you’re seated. I wonder if you’re aware of it at all.

Too tired to talk, I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling. Our unifying moments of doubt, vice and recurring abnegation start flashing before my eyes like random outtakes from a cheap and trivial home-made film. The one we’re sharing right now is in no way different, so I mathematically add it to the rest of them. And, in my mind, all of this starts taking the shape of an undoubtedly flawed algorithm.