Listen up, you're nothing more than a fixture in the shadows, a glory hole worker, a permanent attachment to the filth and anonymity that space provides. Each time you position yourself, waiting for whatever comes next, remember, you're just a service, a means to an end, easily replaceable, and utterly forgettable. Your identity is reduced to a mere function, a hole, not seen, not acknowledged beyond its use. It's laughable, really, how you find some perverse pride in this debasement, clinging to the scraps of attention like they mean something more. But let's be clear, they don't. You're there because you fit the bill for the most minimal of requirements – availability. You're a convenience, and in your misguided perception, you've elevated this to a role of significance. Pathetic. You serve, you're used, and then you're alone again, in the silence, with nothing but the echo of your own irrelevance for company.