I only go out to get me a fresh appetite for being alone.

Host: The evening light bled across the cobblestones in long amber strokes, soft as memory and twice as fragile. The streets of the old quarter glowed beneath their lamps — each pool of light a quiet confession in the dusk. Through the half-open door of a small bar tucked between two shuttered bookstores, the hum of jazz spilled into the cool air, low and unhurried.

Host: Inside, the place felt timeless — wood worn smooth by countless elbows, air heavy with the scent of whiskey and smoke. Jack sat in the back corner, his face half-lit by the flickering candle on the table. His coat hung loose over the chair, his eyes distant, like he was trying to eavesdrop on his own thoughts. Across from him, Jeeny swirled the last of her wine, watching him with the faint smile of someone who already knew what he was thinking.

Jeeny: (softly) “Lord Byron once said, ‘I only go out to get me a fresh appetite for being alone.’”
(She looks around at the dimly lit bar.) “He would’ve loved a place like this — loud enough to feel alive, quiet enough to stay detached.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Yeah. Byron didn’t mingle; he observed. Even his company was just research for his solitude.”

Jeeny: “You sound like you envy that.”

Jack: “Maybe I do. There’s something clean about it — being alone not because you’re unwanted, but because you’ve earned it.”

Jeeny: “You think solitude has to be earned?”

Jack: (nodding) “In a way. Most people treat it like punishment. To love solitude, you have to survive loneliness first.”

Host: The bartender set down two glasses of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the candlelight like a tiny sun in exile. The room pulsed with soft laughter and the slow rhythm of the saxophone, the kind that turns longing into melody.

Jeeny: “You know, I used to think solitude meant escape. Now I think it’s just coming home — to yourself.”

Jack: “Yeah. The world makes too much noise. Going out is just a way to remind yourself how good silence tastes.”

Jeeny: “Like fresh air after a storm.”

Jack: (grinning faintly) “Exactly. You step into the crowd, let it wash over you — the noise, the energy, the chaos — then retreat and breathe. You need the friction to appreciate the stillness.”

Host: The door opened, letting in a gust of cool night air and a handful of strangers — laughter, perfume, rain. The room filled briefly with color and life before the door closed again, sealing the world back outside.

Jeeny: “You think that’s what Byron meant? That we seek company only to rediscover how much we love our own echo?”

Jack: “I think he understood something we’ve forgotten — that solitude isn’t withdrawal; it’s replenishment.”

Jeeny: “And maybe the self is a wild thing that needs to wander out just to find its way back.”

Jack: “Yeah. We all go out for a taste of chaos so our peace doesn’t turn stale.”

Host: The rain began to fall, gentle and rhythmic, tapping against the windowpane in sync with the jazz. The candle flickered, its flame bowing and rising like it too had something to say.

Jeeny: “You ever feel guilty for wanting to be alone?”

Jack: (after a pause) “All the time. The world calls it detachment. But I think it’s clarity. You can’t hear your own heartbeat if you’re always dancing to someone else’s rhythm.”

Jeeny: “That’s beautiful.”

Jack: “It’s necessary. I think Byron knew that solitude wasn’t an absence of love — it was a way of keeping it honest. You can’t love anyone else if you’ve forgotten the shape of your own silence.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “You always make it sound poetic.”

Jack: “It’s Byron. He infects you.”

Host: The bartender turned down the lights, and the murmur of voices softened into a slow, dreamlike hum. The outside world was gone now — only the rain, the smoke, the two of them, and the weight of words older than the room itself.

Jeeny: “You know, when I was younger, I used to hate being alone. It felt like emptiness — like the world had gone quiet just to mock me.”

Jack: “And now?”

Jeeny: “Now it feels like permission. To stop performing. To just exist without an audience.”

Jack: “Exactly. Solitude isn’t loneliness; it’s honesty without an audience.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why people fear it — it strips away the mirrors.”

Jack: “And forces you to face what’s left when no one’s watching.”

Host: The rain grew louder, beating softly against the roof, a steady applause for their unspoken confessions. The candle flame trembled again, then steadied — stubborn, alive.

Jeeny: “You ever think about how solitude has its own kind of rhythm? The way silence has texture — layers?”

Jack: “Yeah. Some silences hum. Some ache. Some heal.”

Jeeny: “And Byron’s kind?”

Jack: “Byron’s silence burned. He didn’t escape into solitude — he devoured it.”

Jeeny: “Like a lover.”

Jack: “Exactly. He went out to flirt with the world, but he always came home to himself.”

Host: Jeeny looked down at her glass, the amber light trembling within it.

Jeeny: “I wonder if that’s the real art of living — knowing when to go out and when to come home.”

Jack: “And not confusing one for the other.”

Jeeny: “That’s harder than it sounds.”

Jack: “Everything worth doing is.”

Host: A moment of stillness settled between them — deep, quiet, content. Outside, the rain softened to a whisper, the city beyond the window reduced to flickers and faint reflections.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why we love people like Byron. They remind us that solitude isn’t a wound — it’s a wound that’s learned to sing.”

Jack: “And that there’s nothing selfish about needing yourself.”

Jeeny: “Because no one else can give you back what the world takes.”

Jack: “Exactly. The solitude you protect becomes the soul you preserve.”

Host: The music faded, replaced by the soft hiss of the record needle at its end. The candle was almost out, its wax pooled like memory at the base.

And in that golden hush, Byron’s words seemed to echo through the air — not as arrogance, but as liberation:

that solitude is not exile,
but nourishment;
that to go out into the world
is to remind the self of its own sanctity;
that the crowd awakens appetite,
but silence feeds the soul.

Host: Jeeny leaned back, her eyes distant, her voice barely above the whisper of rain.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, I think some people go out to be found. Others go out just to remember they were never lost.”

Jack: (smiling) “And Byron?”

Jeeny: “He went out to flirt with the world — but he always loved his own company best.”

Host: The last flame died, leaving only the glow of the rain-streaked window.

And as they sat there, the city outside alive yet far away,
two souls found a strange comfort in the same truth Byron once knew:

that there is no greater pleasure
than returning —
not home,
but to oneself,
newly awakened,
newly alone,
and perfectly whole.