The platform buzzed faintly with the hum of late-night commuters, but to me, it felt like a hollow void, the noise distant and meaningless. My thoughts were loud, deafening, urging me toward a choice I no longer had the strength to resist. I stared into the darkened tunnel, watching as the distant light of an oncoming train began to grow brighter, closer.

In the depths of my most fragile state, when I felt like I was unraveling, my world took an unexpected artistic turn. It was during what I can only describe as my "2D from Gorillaz" phase, a surreal time when reality felt as fragmented and otherworldly as the band's music videos. I immersed myself in their universe—not just listening, but living, breathing, and, somehow, creating within it.

The office in 2019 was a cavernous, empty space—just the two of us in a room big enough for a small army. The silence was deafening, broken only by the occasional clatter of a keyboard or the hum of the air conditioning. But what really set the stage was the glass wall separating us from the care company next door. Every day, a parade of young, beautiful women streamed past on their way to meetings, coffee breaks, or the photocopier. It was like watching a surrealist dance, a "gloomy conga," as the Last Shadow Puppets once sang.