Last night, the black core of my ukelele gnawed at me with unforgiving clarity.

Its unyielding darkness mocked me, beckoning my fingers to strum its strings that were each brimmed with a hum of resignation.

Somehow, when I looked back long enough, the faces of my schoolmates, mouth wide and protruding tongues afloat in my mind, stared right back. My ukulele is a mere reflection of this bleak reality. Its strings resonate with an eerie emptiness, as if echoing the deafening silence of a universe devoid of purpose.

Although with its petite frame, this ukulele engulfs me like a shroud, smothering any vestige of hope or joy. Its cold, lifeless body stands as a symbol of the ultimate futility of all human endeavors. What is the point of playing music when it is destined to fade away into the emptiness that surrounds us all?

In the end, my ukulele represents the futility of my own existence. A pitiful attempt to find meaning in a world that is devoid of it.

I dared to pick it up. I strummed to the chords of Riptide.

All is well :D