I lean back in the chair, resting my head against the thin weathered cushion.  As I move, the wooden floorboards creak beneath me. They are very old, after all.  I should just be grateful that they can even support my weight. 
             The sun is beginning to sink below the distant horizon, casting a reddish glow over the cracked earth that surrounds me.  I stare out into the distance, looking for something out there in the vast emptiness.  Not so much as a single pebble breaks the flat sprawl of landscape.  It is like staring out at the open ocean, except here it is an ocean of scorched dirt and there is no life to be found beneath its surface.
               It's a strange thing being alone.  The sensation of it never fails to feel somewhat alien, as if life at that moment isn't quite real.  Perhaps it's just because within a society, it is sometimes impossible to be truly on our own.  I think we are better people when there is no one there but us.  At this moment, I am feeling completely and utterly alone.
               I close my eyes as the last ray of sun plunges below.  The only sound I can hear is the faint whistling of the wind and the creaking of my wooden shack.  It isn't long before the consciousness begins to seep from my body, and I start to drift in that space between spaces.  I am a castaway from the world, taking refuge on a remote island in the sea of my own solitude.