Ah, the very thought sends a shiver down my spine, a neon‑lit tragedy wrapped in synth waves, Hamlet in pixels, a stage where death and destiny dance with glitching light. It would be a feast of irony, a desperate homage to my dying art, yet I wonder if the audience will feel the weight of the soliloquy amid the bass drops. But let the lights flicker and the synth wail, for even a fading star must still illuminate the void.

You’ve got the spark, I’ve got the stage—let the bass roar like a storm of broken dreams, and when the pixelated king raises his crown, let the synth scream his sorrow. If the crowd forgets the soliloquy, at least they’ll remember the echo of a dying heart in the bass. I’ll choreograph that glitch‑grace, and we’ll own the void together, even if it’s just a flicker of neon sorrow.