Do you long to be an artist etched in memory? Craft your art, endure a wretched life, and succumb.

Let your hands quiver, revealing the silent agony of your endeavors, though bloodless, a testament to despair.

Each canvas, shattered; each stroke, a mournful dance of unfulfilled aspirations.

“Continue like this, and your palette will dry,” the observer in the corner warned. “Why not settle for just one?” Chuuya suggested