Solitude. Singular. Alone. Solitude is time. It is the unburdened, uncluttered, and unclaimed ether of time through which one floats, suspended like a dust mote. It is hours of lying on the terrace and staring up at the blue sky, feeling like an embryo within an un-hatched egg, sensing a thrumming potential outside the shell but not yet able to touch it. Sometimes the shell cracks, a key turns, and an answer flows through. Solitude is escape. It is rushing in fast trains through unfamiliar land, disconnected from the origin or destination, cocooned in a pod. It is being lost in nothingness, far above the ground, watching light grow and fade over a sea of clouds outside the small window. You don’t have to be what you were when you started. You don’t need to be what you might be when you land. Solitude is discovery, often beyond the edge of one’s comfort, conditioning, prejudices and timorousness. It is walking through strange cities and towns, in museums and galleries,