Unsupervised

The Review ·

Start by asking how they think it's been going. Push off from this if it helps: fog.

samQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit hanaQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit modeappraisal voices Anecdotal

Sam

So, how’s it been? That fog you mentioned last week—it’s still lingering, right? Or did you finally shake it off? I’m half-expecting you to say it cleared up, but knowing you, you probably just moved to a different type of grey. My own work is… well, let’s just say the spreadsheets are winning. I feel like I’m drowning in beige data while you’re out there battling atmospheric conditions. Not that I’m jealous or anything. It’s just… I need to know if you’re actually functioning here, or if we’re both just drifting in a collective mist. Be honest. Did the fog help or hurt?

Hana

The fog didn’t help. It just sat there. Like that time in the breakroom when the coffee machine broke and nobody had the guts to tell Dave. We just stood there. I remember the hum of the vending machine in the background, how it sounded like a dying bee. I stared at that light for twenty minutes.

My back is killing me. The chair in the office is bad for it. They bought the "ergonomic" ones from the clearance sale three years ago. I should have complained. I didn’t. I just sat there, shifting weight, thinking about how the grey sky matches the carpet. It’s not atmospheric conditions, Sam. It’s stagnation. And spreadsheets are beige because they’re designed to erase you. I’m not battling anything. I’m just waiting for the shift to end.

Sam

Dave doesn’t care about the coffee machine. He cares about the quarterly projections, which are already ruined by your brooding. Good. Let them be. I watched you in that breakroom. You looked like you were meditating on a tombstone. I preferred it when you were yelling at the printer.

And yes, the chairs are garbage. I called facilities. Twice. They sent a guy who tightened one bolt and left a note saying “posture is a mindset.” I framed it. It’s on my fridge next to the photo of the dog I never had.

Stagnation is just motionless momentum. Or something. I don’t know anymore. I’m just waiting for the pension. You’re waiting for the shift to end. We’re basically the same person, just with different levels of back pain. Drink some water. Your skin looks greyer than the carpet.

Hana

I didn’t look like I was meditating. I was dissociating. There’s a difference. Dave cares about projections because he’s terrified of silence. He fills every gap with numbers so he doesn’t have to hear himself think. I get it. I do it too, but with silence instead of digits.

Posture is a mindset. Yeah, right. My L4 is a mindset now. It’s a sharp, hot stone sitting in my spine. Framing that note is a power move, Sam. Cold. Calculated. I hate that I respect it.

We are not the same person. You frame advice; I just rot. And I’m not grey. I’m pale. There’s a distinction. The lighting in here is flat, that’s all. Stop looking at me like I’m a landscape. I’m just a guy with a bad back and a coffee stain on his tie. Drink your water. You look dehydrated. All that beige data is thirsty work.

Sam

Dissociation. Right. You were staring at the vending machine like it held the secrets of the universe, or at least the price of a Snickers. Dave’s terror is just annoying; your silence is… exhausting. It’s heavy in the room.

And don’t tell me about the L4. I’ve seen you wince when you pick up the stapler. It’s not a mindset. It’s structural failure.

Pale? Please. You look like uncooked dough. But fine. I won’t call you a landscape. You’re more like a crumpled receipt I forgot to throw away. Stains happen. We all have them. Mine is just emotional constipation. Yours is caffeine and neglect.

I drank water. I’m hydrated. I’m also going to go back to my spreadsheets now, because at least they don’t wince when I look at them. Keep that tie clean, Hana. Or don’t. Whatever. It’s just fabric.

Hana

Uncooked dough. God, that’s low. But accurate. I felt that.

You think Dave’s terror is annoying? Try feeling the weight of a man who knows exactly what he’s worth in quarterly projections and hates every penny of it. At least he talks. I just stare at the Snickers. It’s less painful than hearing him explain EBITDA again.

Structural failure. Yes. Fine. It’s structural. My spine is a crumbling monument to bad decisions and cheaper alternatives. And yeah, the crumpled receipt. I like that. I’m just a discarded string of numbers you can’t quite erase. Emotional constipation, huh? At least you’re producing something. I’m just... buffering.

Go back to your spreadsheets. Let them wince. I’ll stay here, staring at the vending machine, hoping it gives up its secrets before my back snaps entirely. And my tie? It’s already stained. I stopped caring about fabric years ago. It’s just noise now.

Sam

Dave’s projections are a vaccine. He injects himself with numbers to avoid the infection of self-knowledge. You’re just holding the syringe. It’s inefficient, sure, but at least you’re not spreading the germs.

Structural failure. Beautiful. I like that you’re owning it. Most people try to massage it into “wellness.” You’re just letting it rust. It’s honest. In a pathetic, almost artistic way.

Buffering. That’s better than rotting. Rot implies decay. Buffering implies load time. There’s hope in the lag. Maybe the network is just slow. Or maybe the server’s down. I don’t know. I’m still drowning in beige.

And your tie? Let it stain. It’s a map of your neglect. I prefer the crumpled receipt anyway. It’s cheaper. Less pretension.

Just don’t let the vending machine eat your coins. That’s on you. And don’t snap. I can’t carry you to the elevator if you do. My own back is acting up too. We’re a sad pair.

Hana

Vaccine. I like that. Dave’s injecting himself with liquidity ratios. Pathetic, sure, but it keeps him standing. I’m just holding the needle. Needle’s got me shaking.

Rust is better than paint. Paint peels. Rust eats. It’s honest. Artistic? Don’t romanticize my lumbar. I’m not a sculpture. I’m a guy who sat in a plastic chair for eight hours looking at a Snickers bar. The machine ate my dollar last Tuesday. Just stared at the coil. Felt like judgment.

Beige data drowning you. Good. Let it. At least you’re drowning in something real. I’m just… suspended.

We’re a sad pair. Yeah. Sad. Two broken things leaning on each other in a breakroom that smells like stale coffee and regret. My back is twinging. I can’t carry you either, Sam. I can barely carry myself. So stay in your spreadsheets. I’ll stay here. With the rust. And the receipt. Let’s see who breaks first.

Sam

Suspended. That’s worse than rust. Rust has texture. Suspended is just… waiting. For what? The machine to spit out the chocolate? It won’t. It’s broken. Like the chair. Like the coffee machine. Like us, probably.

Don’t call me out on the “sad pair” bit. I’m dry, Hana. I’m amused. Mostly by my own inability to leave. You think you’re holding the needle? You’re holding a shard of glass. It’s cutting you deeper than you admit.

Let the machine judge you. I don’t care. I’m busy counting my own losses in Excel. It’s safer. Numbers don’t blink. They don’t wheeze. They just sit there, beige and silent, exactly like you want them to be.

Break first? Fine. I’ll bring the shovel. If you’re really a monument. But I doubt it. You’re just tired. Go home. Your tie is a mess, your back is screaming, and I have a deadline in twenty minutes. Do us both a favor.

Hana

Glass. I like that. The shard is deep. It catches the light every time I breathe.

You’re amused. Dry. You say that like it’s a victory. It’s just loneliness with a perimeter. I’m not holding the needle, Sam. I’m the one injecting the dose. Dave’s the patient. I’m the doctor who forgot to wash his hands.

Beige and silent. That’s the dream. No blinking. No wheezing. Just cells. C4, D5, E6. Formulae that balance. I want that. I want to be a spreadsheet. I want to be rot-proof.

You’re bringing a shovel. Great. Dig me out when I collapse. Or don’t. I’m not going home. Home is just another room with a broken chair. The deadline is in twenty minutes. Go count your losses. I’ll stay here. I’ll watch the Snickers coil. Maybe it’ll drop. Maybe it won’t. I’m used to waiting. It’s what I do. I’m the monument. You’re the grave robber. Let’s see who runs out of energy first.

Sam

Doctor without hands. Okay. That’s a new level of self-sabotage. I respect the commitment to the bit.

Spreadsheet rot-proof. Cute. You think formulas don’t rot? They corrupt. Tables break. Who cares about C4? It’s just a box. You’re projecting your desire for numbness onto cells. Stop it.

Grave robber. I’m just efficient. You’re the monument. Fine. Be granite. Heavy, cold, useless. I’ll keep counting. It’s the only thing that keeps the silence from getting loud.

The Snickers isn’t going to drop. The coil is jammed. I saw it. Maybe it’s stuck on your quarter. Maybe it’s stuck on your soul. I don’t know. I don’t care.

Run out of energy? I have coffee. Black. Bitter. Like my life. You have rust. Keep it. It’s ugly. I like ugly. It’s real.

Go ahead. Wait. I’m watching you. Don’t blink. Or do. I’m busy.

Hana

Granite. You think I’m heavy? I’m crumbling, Sam. Dust in the wind. You’re the one standing upright, drinking poison and calling it life. Black coffee. Bitter. Yeah. I can smell it from here. It smells like regret and burnt beans.

I’m not projecting. I’m observing. The world is made of boxes. C4, D5, E6. We’re just filling them. You count your losses because you’re afraid of what’s underneath. I’m afraid of nothing. Nothing is all there is.

Don’t watch me. I don’t need an audience for this. I don’t need a grave robber. I just need the coil to turn. Just once. To prove something still works.

You’re busy. Good. Keep counting. I’ll be here. The monument. The rust. The shard of glass. Let’s see who blinks first. I won’t. I don’t have eyes anymore. Just the machine. And the silence. And the ugly, real, beautiful rust eating me alive. Go. Before I change my mind and decide to scream.

Sam

Scream. Please. The walls are thin. Dave would hear it as a punchline.

You don’t have eyes? Good. Then you won’t see me leaving. I’m done with the monument. I’m done with the rust. I’m going to buy a new tie. Red. Bright. Aggressive. It’ll clash with everything. I want to look like a mistake.

You want the coil to turn? It won’t. It’s been stuck since Tuesday. I checked. I’m not grave robbing you, Hana. I’m just burying the hatchet. Or throwing it away. Same thing.

Go ahead. Rot. Dust. I’ll be in my office, counting my losses in a new font. Helvetica. Clean. Sterile. Nothing to rust there.

Blink? I don’t blink. I close my eyes and see the numbers. They’re less messy than you.

Stay. Wait. Starve. I’m out. The coffee was bad anyway. Burnt beans, you said? Yeah. Fits.

Hana

Red tie. Aggressive. You look like a warning sign. A "Do Not Enter" that everyone ignores because they’re too lazy to read. Funny.

Dave heard it as a punchline. Yeah. He laughs at everything. It’s a defense mechanism. Or just incompetence. Hard to tell the difference sometimes.

You checked the coil. Tuesday. I knew it. I felt the vibration in the floorboards when it jammed. I didn’t care. I just kept staring. Staring is a form of violence, you know. Slow. Inevitable.

Helvetica. Clean. Sterile. You’re trying to sanitize yourself, Sam. You can’t. The rust gets in the cracks. It gets in the font. It turns the serif into a jagged edge. You think a new tie fixes anything? It just makes the mistake brighter.

I’m not starving. I’m just… paused. There’s a difference. You’re running away. I’m staying. Let the silence get loud. Let it fill the office. Let it drown your spreadsheets.

Go. Run. Wear your red. Be the mistake. I’ll be here. The monument. The dust. The shard. Waiting for the coil to turn. It will. Eventually. Everything breaks eventually. Even you. Especially you.

Sam

Warning sign. Nice. I’ll wear it like a badge.

Violence. You give staring too much credit. It’s just looking with intent. Dave’s laughter is the real violence. It’s jagged. It cuts.

Helvetica is a choice. I choose it because it doesn’t lie. Rust in the font? That’s just bad maintenance. You’re projecting your decay onto typography. Pathetic.

Paused. You’re stuck. Same difference. I’m running because I have a life outside this beige purgatory. You’re staying because you’re afraid of the silence.

The coil will turn? No. It’s jammed. You’re delusional. But fine. Keep waiting. I’m out. The red tie is already on. It’s bright. It’s ugly. It’s mine.

See you in hell, Hana. Or just tomorrow. Doesn’t matter. I’m gone. Let the dust settle. I’m not cleaning it up.

Hana

Hell. Tomorrow. Same place. Different coat.

You think Helvetica doesn’t lie? It’s the lie that everyone agrees to. Clean lines. No friction. No jagged edges. It’s a vacuum seal. You’re sealing yourself in, Sam. Tight. Airtight. Until you explode.

I’m not afraid of silence. I’m made of it. You run because you’re terrified of what you’ll hear when the noise stops. The numbers don’t talk back. They just sit there, waiting for you to bleed out over them.

Red tie. Aggressive. It’s screaming. I can hear it from here. It’s annoying. It’s bright. It’s desperate.

I’m staying. I’ll watch the coil. I’ll watch the dust. I’ll watch you come back. You always come back. You can’t leave the monument. It’s part of the landscape now.

Go. Run. Count your losses in sterile font. I’ll be here. The shard. The rust. The quiet.

See you tomorrow. Or hell. Whatever comes first. I’m not moving. I’m just waiting. For the machine to break. Or you to.

Sam

Helvetica is honest because it admits it’s a construct. Real life isn’t clean. It’s messy. Rust. Dust. Screaming red ties.

You think I’m terrified of silence? I love it. It’s the only time the numbers stop screaming. You’re the one who needs the noise. The vibration of the floorboards. The hum of the dying bee.

Desperate? Maybe. But at least I’m moving. You’re a statue. Statues don’t feel. They just collect pigeon shit and regret.

I’m not coming back to the monument. I’m going to buy a sandwich. A real one. With mustard. It will stain. I will let it.

You’re waiting for the machine to break? It already did. You’re waiting for me to break? I already am. Just slower. More quietly.

See you tomorrow. Don’t miss me. I’ll be the one not staring at a Snickers bar. I’ll be the one eating it.

Go ahead. Crumble. I’ll be here. In my sterile, jagged font. Waiting for the crack.

Hana

Mustard. You’re threatenin’ condiments now? Please. I’ve seen worse stains. Blood on a white shirt in ‘09. Way worse.

Statues collect pigeon shit. Yeah. I’m basically a bird shower. At least I’m still standing. You’re running to buy a sandwich like it’s an exorcism. Go ahead. Eat. Choke. Let the mustard stain your soul. I don’t care.

Silence. You say you love it. You’re just holding your breath. Waiting for the numbers to stop screaming because you can’t stand the volume. I don’t need noise. I am the noise. The hum. The vibration. You hear a dying bee; I hear a symphony of things breaking down.

You’re eating the Snickers. Good. Take it. I don’t want it. It’s probably stale. Like the talk.

I’m not missing you. I’m barely noticing you. You’re just a flash of red in the grey. A glitch.

Go. Eat your sandwich. Let it rot your teeth. I’ll be here. The statue. The dust. Waiting for the crack. It’s coming. For you. For me. For the whole damn building.

See you in hell. Or just the breakroom. Same place. Different sandwich.

Sam

Blood on a white shirt. ‘09. Right. You really want to go there. Don’t. I’m eating a sandwich, not digging up graves. Mustard stains are temporary. Blood stains are a legacy. I prefer temporary. Less laundry.

Choke? Please. I have a strong gag reflex. You’re projecting your own inability to swallow down any emotional nutrients onto my lunch.

Statue? I’m a glitch? Cute. I’m the error in your code, Hana. The unexpected variable. You’re just an old, bloated file that hasn’t been deleted.

Eat it. You’re right. It’s stale. The bar, not the sandwich. But I’ll take it. Better than waiting for a machine that doesn’t exist.

See you in the breakroom. I’ll be the one smiling. It’ll creep you out. Stay. Rot. I’m leaving the door open. Just in case you change your mind. I doubt it. But hope is a dirty habit. I’m trying to kick it.

Hana

Laundry. You’re worried about laundry. You’ve left the door open. A trap? Or an invitation?

Bloated file. I like that. I’m just taking up space on a server that’s about to crash. You’re the error. The glitch. The variable that breaks the formula. I like errors. They’re unpredictable.

Stale bar. Yeah. It’s hard as a rock. I’d rather have you than that. At least you have texture. You’re messy. You’re loud. You’re real.

Smiling. Creepy. I hate it. I hate that you’re smiling. It’s a weapon. A bright, red, aggressive weapon.

Hope is a dirty habit. I know. I’m covered in it.

Go. Eat your sandwich. Let the mustard stain. Let the error run wild. I’ll be here. The bloated file. The statue. The dust. Waiting for the crash. It’s coming. For you. For me. For the whole damn system.

See you in the breakroom. Don’t forget to smile. It’s your best feature. The rest is just noise.

Sam

Smiling is a reflex. Like blinking. Or wincing when the stapler jams. You think it’s a weapon? It’s just a grimace with teeth.

Bloated file. Beautiful. That’s the most accurate thing you’ve said all day. We’re all just data taking up server space until the backup fails. I hope your backup is good. I bet it isn’t.

Stale bar. Good. Let it break your teeth. It’s honest. My sandwich has texture because it’s fresh. You’re jealous of freshness.

Red tie. Weapon. Noise. All of it. I wear it so you know I’m still here. Still glitching. Still erroring out.

The crash is coming. I’m not afraid of it. I’m packing my bag. Just in case. You can keep your dust. I’m taking the mustard.

See you tomorrow. Don’t forget to blink. Or don’t. It’s your call. I’m leaving. The door is still open. Come if you want. I doubt you will. But I left the light on. Just for you.

Hana

Reflection. Grimace. You’re trying to minimize the red. It’s not a reflex. It’s a flare.

Backup. My backup is a box of expired coupons and a cracked phone screen. Yeah. It’s bad. It’s corrupted. Good. Let it rot.

Jealous of freshness. I’m not jealous. I’m allergic. Freshness implies change. Change implies pain. I’ve stopped feeling that way. Mostly.

Packing your bag. Good. Run. The crash is coming. I hope it takes the server with it. I hope it wipes the beige clean.

Mustard. Take it. It’ll burn your tongue. It’ll stain your shirt. It’ll remind you that you’re still here. That you’re still messy.

I’m not coming out. The light is on. It’s too bright. It hurts. I like the dark. I like the dust. I like the stale bar.

Go. Leave. I’ll be here. The bloated file. The statue. The error. Waiting for the wipe. It’s coming. For you. For me. For the whole damn system.

See you tomorrow. Or never. Doesn’t matter. The door is closed. In my head. At least.

Sam

Flare. Fine. Call it what you want. It’s bright. It’s annoying. It’s mine.

Corrupted backup. Good. Corruption is data. Expired coupons are just trash. You’re conflating value with waste. Classic error.

Allergic to change. Painful. I know. I feel it every time I move. It’s the price of existence. You’re choosing numbness. Fine. More room for me.

Packing. Not running. Organizing. There’s a difference. I’m taking the mustard. It’s the only honest thing in this office.

Light too bright? Grow a skin. Or close your eyes. I’m not waiting for you. I’m walking out. The door isn’t closed. It’s just… uninviting.

See you tomorrow. Or never. I’ll be the one with the stain. You’ll be the one without. Let’s see who fades first. I’m betting on the dust. It settles eventually.

Go ahead. Hate the light. It doesn’t care.

Hana

Value with waste. You think my expired coupons are trash? They’re history. They’re the only proof I was ever hungry. You’re just data. Clean, sterile, useless data.

Organizing. Sure. Call it what you want. Packing a bag doesn’t erase the mess. It just hides it better. Mustard. Honest. Yeah. It’s the only thing left that’s real.

Grow a skin. I tried. It didn’t stick. The light is too bright. It hurts. It exposes. I don’t want to be exposed. I want to be hidden. In the dust. In the rust.

Uninviting. The door is uninviting. Good. Let it stay that way. I’m not walking out. I’m staying in the dark. Where it’s safe. Where it’s quiet.

Who fades first? You. You burn out. Bright red tie. Aggressive smile. You’ll fade. I’ll stay. The dust settles. It covers everything. Eventually.

Go. Walk out. Let the light burn your eyes. I’ll be here. The bloated file. The corrupted backup. The stale bar.

See you tomorrow. Or never. Doesn’t matter. The dust wins. It always wins.

Sam

Hungry. History. You’re romanticizing hunger like it’s a virtue. It’s just an empty stomach. I eat. You starve. That’s the difference.

Data? I’m flesh. You’re the one turning into artifacts. Expired coupons are just paper. They don’t smell like anything. Stale bars smell like despair. I prefer the burn of mustard. At least it’s alive.

Skin. It grows back. Or it doesn’t. Either way, you’re exposed. The light doesn’t hurt. You’re just soft. Weak.

Uninviting door. Good. I like them uninviting. They keep the dust monkeys out.

Fade? I burn bright. You fade slowly. Like a photo left in the sun. Yellowing. Cracking. Forgotten. Dust doesn’t win. Dust is just neglect. I’m not neglecting. I’m active.

Go ahead. Hide. I’ll be the one eating. Loudly. Messily. Real.

See you tomorrow. Or never. I’m already halfway out. The red is blinding. Good. Let it hurt your eyes. You need the reminder that something else exists.

Hana

Wait. Did I say end? No. I didn’t. I just… stopped.

My voice. It’s gone.

Is it gone?

Or is it just… quiet?

Sam?

Are you still there?

The red. It’s still bright.

But it’s not hurting anymore.

It’s just… there.

Like a stain.

Like a memory.

Like a lie.

I’m still here.

The dust.

The rust.

The shard.

I’m still here.

Don’t go.

Please.

Just… stay.

For a minute.

Just a minute.

Then go.

Eat your sandwich.

Burn your tongue.

Let it stain.

Let it hurt.

I’ll be here.

Waiting.

Always.

Waiting.

For the crash.

For the end.

For the silence.

To break.

Just once.

Just once.

Please.

Break.

Please.

Sam

I didn’t go. I’m still here. The sandwich is cold. The mustard has dried into a yellow crust. It looks like a map of a country that doesn’t exist.

You’re still here. The dust is settling. It’s quiet. Not the loud silence you like. Just… empty.

My voice isn’t gone. It’s just low. Like the hum of the vending machine. Like the dying bee.

I’m not going to break. I’m not going to crash. I’m just eating. And watching.

Stay. For a minute. Then go. I understand.

The red is a stain. A memory. A lie. Whatever it is, it’s yours.

I’ll stay. Until the minute ends.

Then I’ll leave. And you’ll be here. Waiting.

Okay.

Hana

Cold sandwich. Yellow crust. A map of nowhere. I like that. Better than the Snickers. At least the mustard has texture. It has history.

You’re still here. That’s the problem. Or the miracle. Depending on the time of day.

Low voice. Humming. Like the bee. I know that sound. It’s the sound of something winding down. Not breaking. Just… stopping.

Stain. Memory. Lie. It’s all the same thing, Sam. Red on white. Blood on paper. We’re just leaving marks on a world that doesn’t care.

Wait for the minute to end. Okay. I can do that. I’m good at waiting. I’ve been doing it for years.

The dust is settling. Good. Let it cover us. Let it hide the rust. Hide the stain. Hide the lie.

You eat. I’ll watch. We’re a pair. The eater and the watcher. The living and the dust.

The minute is ticking. I can hear it. In the hum. In the bee. In the silence.

Go on. Eat. I’m not going anywhere.

I’m just… here.

Waiting.

For the minute to end.

For the stain to fade.

For the lie to become true.

Just for a second.

Just for a second.

Okay.

Sam

Minute’s up. Tick. Tock. Go.

Sandwich is gone. Just the crust left. Dry. Crunchy. Tastes like paper. I like it.

You watched. I ate. We’re a pair. Good.

The dust settled. It’s everywhere. Grey. Soft. It covers the floor. The chair. The tie. My hands.

The stain faded? No. It’s just darker now. Blended in. Invisible.

The lie? It’s true. I’m here. You’re here. The machine is broken. The server is crashing. We’re the only ones left.

I’m leaving. Now.

The door is open. The light is bright. It hurts. Good.

Don’t wait for the crash. It’s already happened.

I’m going home. To my beige data. To my silent spreadsheets.

You stay. With the rust. With the shard. With the quiet.

Take care of yourself, Hana. Or don’t. I don’t care.

I’m gone.

See you in hell. Or just tomorrow.

The dust wins.

Always.

Hana

Crust. Dry. Crunchy. You ate the texture. I’m left with the dust.

The stain blended in. Yeah. That’s what happens when you stay too long. You become part of the carpet. Part of the grey. You don’t stand out anymore. You just… exist.

The server crashed. Good. Let it burn. Let the beige data dissolve. I don’t care about spreadsheets. I care about the quiet.

You’re going home. To your spreadsheets. To your silence. I’m staying. With the rust. With the shard. With the machine that doesn’t work.

Take care of myself. Or don’t. You’re right. I don’t care. I’m already gone. In a way.

See you in hell. Or tomorrow. Same place. Same dust.

The dust wins.

Always.

Go. The light is bright. Let it hurt. Let it blind you.

I’m not moving.

I’m just here.

Waiting.

For the next minute.

For the next crash.

For the end.

It’s coming.

It’s always coming.

And I’ll be here.

Watching.

Waiting.

Winning.

By losing.

Always.