He sat at home, tired from the dinner. He was alone, companions unconditionally faithful and sleeping at his feet.

He thought to himself that unlike the others at dinner he could not think of nor recall any real permanent mistake he had ever made. Not that his life was perfect or completely satisfactory but it was better than all theirs if you took out any feelings. Their feelings were generally negative but he wondered if that was griping because they seemed alive recklessly so but with so little time to think of their actions.  They wondered even more at the consequences which seemed without cause and unfathomable. His future was predictable and little had been left to chance.  Was it less dramatic-yes but was he then living it less- he wasn't sure.

He had written it all done. Now with computers and his paper journals, it was recorded in triplicate.  But it was primarily his recording. Others had collected video; objective proof they could rely on later and then recall their feelings. And they had the daily perspective of their significant other. He didn't want that kind of presence. His only consolation was that if he was able to produce something, maybe someday others would think of his actions, cognition, as substitute for the windy vacuum he dwelt in.

He thought of Friedrich, a man who insured his eternal remembrance by writing prose poetry. No less than Strauss had dreamed of his inner life.  His would not be the same and if it was would it be of  help  now   Would it be of comfort at his death to know he had a shot at recollection later. What would be his thoughts if as more likely would be the case, all evidence was discarded weeks after he was shelved  with the others in the mall lines of grave occupants.

WHEN Zarathustra was thirty years old, he left his home and the lake of his home, and went into the mountains. There he enjoyed his spirit and his solitude, and for ten years did not weary of it. But at last his heart changed,- and rising one morning with the rosy dawn, he went before the sun, and spake thus unto it:

Lo! I am weary of my wisdom, like the bee that hath gathered too much honey; I need hands outstretched to take it.

Lo! This cup is again going to empty itself, and Zarathustra is again going to be a man. Thus began Zarathustra's down-going.

a child hath Zarathustra become; an awakened one is Zarathustra: what wilt thou do in the land of the sleepers?

WHEN I came unto men for the first time, then did I commit the anchorite folly, the great folly: I appeared on the market-place.

The youthful swell of a loving girl with its risk of abandonment, that was the fools errand.  There at his birth, he could not allow his psyche to twist him in its quest for return.  Less living but more genuine comfort. His solace was a refusal to compromise or allow others to do so in their contacts.