But now I'm at home, sitting on a chair, my head drooping lower and lower, until I drift off the only way I know how, moist lip against raised knees. Sometimes I remain in my Thonet position as late as midnight, and when I awake, curled up, coiled up in myself like a cat in winter, like a rocking-chair frame, I lift my head to find my trouser knee drenched with drool. I can be by myself because I'm never lonely, I'm simply alone, living in my heavily populated solitude, a harum-scarum of infinity and eternity, and Infinity and Eternity seem to take a liking to the likes of me.
from Too Loud a Solitude by Bohumil Hrabal
from Too Loud a Solitude by Bohumil Hrabal