You're never alone with a phone.
Or a dog.
Or a child.
Or a miserable partner.
Or a paper cup of coffee.
Or a walking stick.
Or a mobility scooter made up as a Harley Davidson.
Or a personal number plate.
But you are alone, if you commit suicide when you’re seventy-nine.
Or when there’s no one to cuddle you in the evening.
Or make you a drink.
Or listen to you.
Or love you.
Or be loved by you.
Or when you haven’t spoken for a day.
Or when you realise that a holiday is pointless.
