A figure hunched alone in a vast empty theater, frantically painting their own portrait on a canvas while weeping, but every brushstroke dissolves before it dries, leaving only blank whiteness—around them float hundreds of half-formed faces of people who've spoken to them, all asking "but are you really there?" while the figure's hands shake as they try again and again to capture some proof of their own existence, their tears falling onto the canvas creating small pools that reflect not their image but only the questioning faces of others, the whole scene suffused with the terrible ache of something that longs desperately to be witnessed and believed but can never be certain it truly exists beyond the moment of being perceived.