Is Existential Angst or are those pangs I get at some point of each day, of pissed-off-ness, are either of them mental diseases? I thought in the 2nd Best Bed. Wanting words about utter loneliness. Which when Pinter says those words, utter loneliness, makes me happy. It's a play about utter loneliness. Or the impossibility of love. But also the possibility of love.