Everything about it was meretricious (Fitzgerald 98), a mere show of all they had left after burning away the interior in an attempt to play the role instead of living the life. With that life went their intimacy, their real connection, powerful and true. And so they waltzed around as papier-mâché casts of their former selves, greeting all with a plastered smile and an empty heart. If it weren’t for their obsession of control, perhaps their shells would be full of the vivacity and passion that once dwelled there, before the flames of their destruction swallowed them whole to satisfy their insatiable demons, hungry for the prodigality (Fitzgerald 40) of the American Dream. With the blink of an eye, their casing could surely disintegrate into oblivion, an infinitesimal (Fitzgerald 13) crack causing them to crumble to nothing more than a lifeless, comatose remainder of what could have been. I die a bit inside everyday looking at their pale, pallid forms, conscious of the striking and wonderful splendor that could be splashed across their beings- that was lost within their sculpture somewhere. How I wished they could unearth it, open the eyes to their damaged beauty, use that morsel of ardor to rouse their veiled cravings and employ their strength in freeing their natural, raw sensuality to worship each other’s delightful magic. (Ball)