Happiness is a warm gun. I know what the Beatles meant when they said that. They meant that they were weird and on mushrooms. [HEAR: a rimshot. PICTURE: the drummer yawning.]
But lonesomeness is a swath of neck hair. I can see it there in the bathroom mirror. And there's nobody back there, where my eyes don't go, to shave it for me. To keep me maintained.
And so I navigate the thicket myself. Bravely. Stupidly. Taking a guess, clearing a path on the frontiers of what I can see. And this is why LONESOMENESS and not LONELINESS, with its lilting alliteration, dressed up in ribbons and bows. It's easy to trace the tracks of its tears. Lonesomeness, on the other hand, is a swath of neck hair but it is also a barstool, a loaded sixstring on my back, the basement of the Alamo, the head chopped off a parking meter. Lonesomeness sleeps just fine with a Stetson pulled over its head, having just put out the fire and kicked the empty can of beans. But not out of frustration.
And the skies are not cloudy all day.