Who's to think one's right? You just get back up, dust ourself out only to find your self growing colder and more stoic. Suddenly, not much bothers you anymore. You meet every shot with a reaction that bears cold and hollow to the very core. You're convince you will never be beaten. The challenge is to convince yourself that what's done is done. Hence, you grow a rough exterior that pierces straight into the heart of the darkness that besets upon us. And the one day there you are. You're no longer the one they once saw. You're a wounded shadow of a hero, worn down and beaten. Now, you're unrecognizable and they see you as you always did, just as you did in that dark room, chained to an eternity consumed by a hollow disposition. Sweet dreams.