Sharp

Oftentimes, I crave time alone.  Most of the time, I enjoy my solitude.  Every now and then, though, it is slightly less agreeable.

But even so, every now and then I would feel a violent stab of loneliness. The very water I drink, the very air I breathe, would feel like long, sharp needles. The pages of a book in my hands would take on the threatening metallic gleam of razor blades. I could hear the roots of loneliness creeping through me when the world was hushed at four o'clock in the morning.  ― Haruki Murakami, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle

Picture copyright 2013, Mediocria Firma. Used with gratitude.