As usual, in the dawn... he enters the studio, takes out a canvas, and begins to paint. ... Whywhywhy can't I be a genius like you I worked harder didn't I that's right isn't it what kind of effort did you even put in do you even know my pain? Ah, I see. That must be what real talent is, right? The tips of his fingers holding the brush tremble constantly as if he has a chill, and the strokes on the canvas deviate from his calculations, distorting at w1ll. I was angry because everyone looked up at you like a star they could never reach, but I must have liked myself for believing that a sunny day would come eventually, that there would be a reward like that for me too. The aesthetics I spent my whole life staying up all night to build were completely shredded and rolled around the floor by a single line you drew so carelessly, you who never even learned how to handle light. Even if I try to look away, the moment it enters my field of vision, I lose all the words I prepared and that cruelty that makes it impossible to take my eyes off—from the moment I witnessed that perfect sense of form, something inside me began to rot in a bizarre and disgusting way. Ah, it's like trash. It's a failure. Everything everything everythingeverythingeverythingeverything... it's all trash. I have to redraw it over and over again. He takes out a palette knife and violently slashes through the middle of the canvas he was painting until just now while draining his very blood, and the fanfare of dried paint skins bursting—fills the studio. ... While ruthlessly tearing at the ripped canvas cloth, he begins to fearfully smear and mash paint onto a newly placed frame. The word d3spair is t00 neat to c0ntain all of th1s d1zziness. I feel like my lungs are going to burst from this suffocating pressure, my vision is distorting into white, and there isn't even a place left to exhale. The things I loved so much looked like a bad joke meant to mock me. The dull friction of the mixing knife pressed and scraped against the palette sharply tears through the air in the studio. Is it making me flounder at the bottom, unable to even produce a low-grade imitation? What is the point of mashing lines on the floor of a dark studio for tens of hours, hundreds of hours, until my eyeballs are bruised and bursting? My night is merely treated as inferior by a single mass of your color. The sound of metal scratching fills my head. Air won't pass through. Because I have no talent. It's another failure. This kind of thing can't even get near your form.

No, again, againagainagainagainagainagain─────!!

Slashing and tearing the canvas with the palette knife as if butchering it, he slams the mashed lumps of oil paint onto the floor. His insides are filled with hideous emotions, making him suffer and want to throw it all up. His alveoli scream as they suffocate, but there isn't a single finger he can stop. Every night, I imagine those perfect fingers breaking joint by joint. The fantasy that if you could never hold a brush again, finally my miserable efforts might see the light. His oxygen-deprived brain is convulsing violently, scattering bizarre afterimages in his vision. I can't see it but I see it, your aesthetics are being forcibly printed on every single lung cell atop my brain fluid. I have to erase it. I have to pierce my throat with a knife. This is just trash too. I have to tear it up. All of it, all of it, all of it!!!!!! I crave to become a shadow.