An entire lifetime of being an introvert would do nothing to cure you of loneliness, especially when it is winter and crisp and you could die for a cuddle. You can’t even point to a particular person, or a particular moment in time you actually miss: in the end it’s all in the head, an idea that just refuses to be stamped down to death. I’ve been trying to remember (and concentrate all this random heartache on) the most perfect person I’ve known. The effort leaves me at an absolute loss. “Perfect people” are such a marvellous paradox (people being intrinsically incapable of perfection); and the ones you think are the most perfect will inevitably be the ones to disappoint you the most because them you perceived the farthest away from what they really were. At times I can almost believe I’ve spent all my life on perfect people, gathering in handfuls nought but mirrors and smoke.