Men find themselves living by the merit of the threads they wear. Rarely is their naked identity seen or touched by the uncertain forces of this world. What if ‘the other’ does not favour a man’s true colours, and he, having left himself open and vulnerable, is scratched and branded by one of the many social stigmas that beget only misfortune? So men are subconsciously under the spell of the unwritten rule that individuality and authenticity is only ever truly permitted in a narrow and nearly suffocating corridor. Like a genetic blueprint that he cannot quite put his finger on, men are conditioned to stay close to the pack, the mob, and so the crowded song of group-thinking views and attitudes. Loneliness is the lingering ache that nature makes a man feel who, for some reason, intentional or not, is momentarily withdrawn to some extent from the hypnotism of the herd. This instinctive alarm pulls him like a magnet, compelled to join with the concentrated whole, and so blend back into the diluted mix. Only the slyest and cleverest of rebellious sorts will ever fathom, realize and so struggle against these inbound traps that seek to keep the herd together, fenced behind the false comfort of not being alone.