I wonder if lonely minds, alien to their own timeline, write books, create art, to externalise some portion of their interior architecture into language, so that others like them can encounter what they've created, find belonging, even across physical and temporal distance.
In this way, their devotion to who they are, their authenticity, becomes paramount in order to render the expanse that exists within them faithfully enough to achieve this.
It is quite beautiful how existential loneliness can produce artifacts capable of relieving the loneliness of others they may never meet. It is quietly romantic, like the men who plant trees whose shade they may never enjoy.