This was precisely the kind of sad that she wanted, precisely the kind of lonesome and solitude, because this was the kind of sad that did not allow her to want to be among even the closest of her friends and lovers, not even for intimate, no-talking, stares-and-wrist-touches only, hipster meetups with cigarettes and coffees involved. This was the kind of sad that allowed her to want to be only herself, needing no one else. This was, for her, the real kind of sad.
“I’m like cat here, a no-name slob. We belong to nobody, and nobody belongs to us. We don’t even belong to each other.” -Holly Golightly, Breakfast at Tiffany’s