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Cold caresses of hedonia speed through the night. He spends the night with no one. Sitting on his couch with his laptop in hand, with the world just a foot away out the window, he chats the night away, and disregards the human experience. The experience can be supplemented with the idea of human experience. That is enough. Agoraphobic maybe, but true, true to what he is. He is whichever internet identity seems suiting for the night, that is, in between, the masturbatory trances he intermittently falls into when the chat conversation lulls. The identities are all the same though, because they are templates for ideas of humanity, and that is what he is.