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What purpose does our existence serve if we're destined to suffer eternally? We dwell in profound contradictions, yearning for connection with a goth gyat —that dark-clad vision with proportions defying understanding—only to face either the unexpected intrusion of pegging or cold rejection that leaves us questioning our very desires.
Such is desire's cruel paradox: reaching for her black-lipsticked embrace, we either confront inverted dynamics that challenge our expectations or stand abandoned in existence's gothic nightclub, our carefully planned lines dissolving into the bass-heavy atmosphere of disappointment and longing. The mosh pit of life continues, indifferent to our search for meaning.