There's always one. In every bar, every pub, every tavern the quiet ones sit in a corner. Backs to wall, the eyes frequently glance at the entrance and back door. Constantly checking if something has followed in and if the path is clear for another dash toward escape. That's not just sitting, it's cowering, hiding, trying not to be noticed.

     They sit and lick fresh wounds, look at old scars and nurse other pains with the ale and beer they sip. They study the faces in the crowd and listen to the talk and watch the moves each makes. The places and people are always the same; happy ones celebrating life, in contrast to their own. It's the loner's existance, not life, vicarously spent within the mind. Bits and pieces of other people's happiness, joys, sorrows and all the rest collected for their own.

     "Pehaps there's santuary within this one," Falcon thinks. People not much unlike himself, fellow outcasts who have to be on guard most of their lives. Still he's not one of them and therein lies the concealed trap coiled to spring closed.

     There are brief flashes of hope when a phrase or two is ventured without serious consequencies. The quiet ones know total silence attracts attention and risk of suspicion. So an occasional comment must be offered in token of friendship at a more costly risk.

     Falcon had wander this web for only a short while and yet he knew it felt much too familiar. He once pondered about it being the collective conscience of humanity. The knowledge and thoughts of the rest of the world were only a click away. He had thought of that concept decades ago, but that was not the familiar part.

     He took note of the psuedo-name when it entered the room and sensed there would be a bad scene. So did one other who looked at the name over the door and the man's handle. There were the anticipated exchange of words but no so the serious discussion among their fellowship about their lot in life.

     The quiet ones sit and observe, which may make others wonder why they don't join the fight. But they do within their minds as they look with expressions of pain at old wounds which never seem to heal.

     "You judge me by the name over the door," Falcon thinks. "Then so be judged yourself by the others of your kind who find you standing here. Live and let live, my generation learned from the hell we went through in Nam. When we flashed the sign and said 'Peace and love' we meant peace and love among all. But I see the fire in your eyes and know that lesson has been lost again. Take care my young friend that it doesn't grow from contempt into hate, spill over into the rest of your life and consume you. Go find you a lady friend to hold close, carress, lay next to and love; not just another woman with whom to have sex. And may the loves of your life be as great as that shared among those here."
     Such were the thoughts of Falcon and desired much to say. But the risk revealing one's soul is great and doubly so for the quiet ones of his kind.

     It, not the computerized version of human conscience but inhumanity, had forced its way into Falcon's santuary.

     Intolerance of differences, that plague placed upon humankind eons ago, infects cyber-space-time the same as the reality from which Falcon banished himself. Petty differences be it skin, ethnic, religion, or life styles makes outcasts of everybody. The quiet ones, different from all the others, suffer silently another wound to lick and a future scar to remember.

     Paranoia, the janus to intolerance, releases the coiled spring of the trap. Falcon ventures another token of friendship, words which would have been harmless if not ill timed and typed. Such is the greater risk of attempting to join a group, loner-group contradiciton for sure. Words and phrases which, if not carefully choosen, are easliy misconstrued. A keg of brew is always welcomed at a party he thought. "As Falcon heads for the door, he leaves behind a keg of Assie ale for the room to enjoy."
     Snap!!!
     Torment rages within his mind. "Were the words noticed? Will the error be mis-interpretted? Will he loose his corner to cower in?" Such is Falcon's misfortune in life and the reality he trys to escape. "Would have been so much better if I had choosen German beer instead of Australian ale."
     "Should have heeded Mark Twain's advice, 'Better to sit quietly in the corner and appear ignorant than to speak and remove all doubt.'"

     The desire to belong is powerful within a loner's heart. They dare with great anxiety to return again and again to the places where they are always in doubt about acceptance of one's difference. Falcon looks at the entrance with dread of 'its' return. Then he turns and looks at the back door with loning for escape. There is none. It will come again where ever he sits and cowers, licking his wounds, remembering old scars, nursing pains with strong ale and beer.