You sit here, talking to boys who wish to tell you about their
project to import a particular beer into the city or craft a music
into a hitherto unknown style who knows how many times dervied, and
you twirl your hair in interest, just glad that a male would cast
attention your way in contradiction to the self-realization that such
boys are juvenile personas extrapolated to the pretense of adulthood,
entertaining yourself for the moment, thinking that it is unto the
universe that suitable stimulation be provided to you, but then, when
the laughter ceases, and your inbuilt programming gives rise to
attachment to this half-person whom you never sought, your mind
becomes divided and you take refuge in the illusion you have crafted
for yourself.

I sit here, head full of thoughts, bereft of conversation, and none
would extend to me the privilege of being, for that ephemeal moment,
part of the group.  Do you care to hear my theories of alternate
timelines, or how the cosmology pointed to by the curvature of space
ineptly name by physicists "dark energy", time's arrow pointing to the
quiessentt ocean of primordial thought, or the neccessity of the
status quo of politics as an extension of human nature?  Should I
point to my excess of years of education in the esoterica of
computational plasma physics, or my position in the forefront of
internet technologies, or of my analysis of Franz Kafka or Tolstoy?

But there is no room for real conversation.  

I sit here, writing in my book, stoking my ego, while my fellow human
beings shuttle out the door, no more than a glance met, and the
aberration in my right eye covering my vision with colors remains the
only reminder that existence extends further than my head