We return from work each day to an empty apartment, glance at the answering machine without much hope and find the same number, one, signifying the call we made to ourselves sometime last year to test if the phone and machine were working. We drop our clothes anywhere, for no one cares where they pile up, or whether we sit on the furniture naked. We spend 45 glorious minutes relishing the fact that our tongue and pallette still respond so orgasmically to food. We might shower, read, watch TV, listen to music, talk a walk, clean. We might do do many things, but instead we click on more websites, diaries, lives in words and graphics, hoping to find that elusive friend. We read and click and read and click and hope and dream and fantasize and at least once an hour find ourselves thinking, "Yet another person we will probably fall in love with who will never know."