My guest today is a hopelessly tired, translucent shadow in whom every spark of hope has completely dried up. She doesn't speak, barely moves, and doesn't even notice the hot drink in front of her.

  I made my guest a piping hot coffee. Just black coffee. And juicy summer cherries. The aroma of the real. The real thing.

  She remains silent. She has no more strength left. I will have to tell her story myself...

  She was born an actress, a great star whose talent could captivate thousands and millions of people. And she dedicated her entire life to the stage. She constantly honed her craft and continually perfected herself. She tirelessly experimented and was always open to new experiences.

  As a result, her every movement on stage became a mesmerizing dance, impossible to look away from. You could watch her without even breathing.

  There was just one problem... Beyond the stage where she performed, pitch darkness had settled in. The spotlights barely penetrated. And there was never any applause or ovation from the audience.

  Each of her final bows and solemn smiles was drowned in soulless emptiness and silence.

  And she was leaving the stage with her head held high, while backstage, despair and resentment awaited her. She tried so hard, she did everything to perfect her craft. She wanted so much to give people warmth and light; she wanted to bring her talent to the world.

  And the answer to all her efforts was an infinitely deep, empty silence. It made you want to howl and tear your hair out. It made you want to run without looking back, run anywhere where there were still people.

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  And she ran. She was abandoning the stage she was born for and tried herself in other fields: dance, drawing, knitting, stained glass, and a thousand other mediums. And each time, having created what could be called a superb work, she found herself back on her empty stage, surrounded by a lifeless void.

  She struggled for a long time, spent years and decades trying to overcome this silence. And she didn't give up. She continued to perform on that empty stage without an audience. And her every movement was drowned in the silent nothingness. She continued.

  And here comes her final performance. She still walks out with her head held high. Her movements are still as flawlessly honed and perfect. But her eyes no longer have that bright, vibrant sparkle that made you want to follow them beyond the horizon.

  She began to turn into a soulless doll, a blind puppet, mindlessly performing the movements honed over the years. And she interrupted her dance. Her inner fire was enough for just that — to avoid stepping into the abyss of indifference. To leave this dead stage with her head held high.

  It happens that your skill turns out to be of no use to anyone.

  The shadow smiled benevolently and slowly melted away along with the smoke from the cooling coffee.

  All I could do was clear away the untouched treat and sigh heavily...

  The auditorium was never empty. It was just that the spectators, hidden in the darkness, didn't want to make their presence known. For them, her efforts, her dance, her life were fleeting entertainment — like everything else in this sick world.

  They didn't react at all to her interrupted dance. They didn't react at all to her first appearance on stage or to her proud, silent exit. They continued to stare at the empty stage. Should they wait silently and blindly for the next act? Can these audiences be pleased? Or is it simply the emptiness taking on strange, deceptive shapes, merging with the soulless darkness of despair and dashed hopes?

  Sometimes I feel like that actress. I write into the void, hoping for what? Recognition? Or admiration? No. I simply hope to see that someone cares about my work. And yet the audience remains silent. This silence sometimes becomes suffocating. It takes an insane amount of energy…