stop making sense

Today I came home to an empty house. I did what I usually do. I spent some time sifted through music, blogs, etc., watched Manhattan, put the lights dimmer than usual. I painted a bit. I like the feeling of being home alone. Because it's liberating. Because I feel free and outside of others in all possible senses. There is a kingdom, there is an empire here. Then, I saunter through the rooms, through the personality of my brother's bedroom, to the fridge, to the television, to the balcony, to look out at the city, hearing all along the hollow sound of some song. And suddenly I feel lonely, I feel trapped in something hollow. I feel hollow, and I realize that I miss peter-trivial: the noise of a pay-per-view boxing event from the television, or my brother when he asks me to watch a movie with him, or even my mother, whom I couldn't stand when she was here.