We all have our little solipsistic delusions, ghastly intuitions of
utter singularity: that we are the only one in the house who ever fills
the ice-cube tray, who unloads the clean dishwasher, who occasionally
pees in the shower, whose eyelid twitches on first dates; that only we
take casualness terribly seriously; that only we fashion supplication
into courtesy; that only we hear the whiny pathos in a dog's yawn, the
timeless sigh in the opening of the hermetically-sealed jar, the
splattered laugh in the frying egg, the minor-D lament in the vacuum's
scream; that only we feel the panic at sunset the rookie kindergartner
feels at his mother's retreat. That only we love the only-we. That only
we need the only-we. Solipsism binds us together, J.D. knows. That we
feel lonely in a crowd; stop not to dwell on what's brought the crowd
into being. That we are, always, faces in a crowd.