As Mr. Beckett said, don't wait to be hunted to hide. For the genuine recluse, it's not enough to simply prefer one's own company, one must be always recoiling from, hiding from, eluding, wedging oneself into a crevice as a sensible precautionary measure. There's a lot to hide from, just peek through the venetian blinds (carefully) at any urban street, or simply reflect for a moment in the silence of your panic room. I am made anxious by the inevitability of events. All possible events occur, eventually; that's why they're called events. This logic is unassailable and not idiotic at all. This is the nightmare we were warned about. A happy ending just means you haven't heard the rest of the story. I like to pull a door closed tightly behind me and then, absolutely still, to hold my breath for a moment, listening. My startle response is in the 99th percentile, I don't like to brag. I tested off the charts according to the standard Don Knotts scale, well past Fawn By The Interstate. I have been known to flinch several minutes before the offending stimulus is perceived. When it all gets to me I find solace in putting on some Petula Clark records and treating myself to some really vigorous flossing. If anyone wants me I'll be folded up in the sofabed, like the dead body in Sisters.