Like a dampen paint, we erode.
We artists have the infinite gamut of contents to share with the audience. We produce works which people could relate to themselves. In the process of regaling others, we are stricken by melancholy. A writer will direct his work for a certain someone, and that special someone will start to contemplate other admirers. It is the alley where we walk alone, observe and learn. Not complaining, but living a pleasant solitary life.