Diara: Oh gods, I'm in so much pain.
Saticalet: Do you know what's causing it? Can you describe it?
Diara: *fumbles with words* Well, it's-I mean...
Saticalet: What, are you not able to describe your pain?
Diara: It's a pain that cannot be described.
Saticalet: There can be no such thing! You're making your supposed "ailment" up as a ploy for more attention, you greedy slag.
Diara: I am not! You mean to tell me that you've never felt a pain that no words in this language or any other could describe?
Saticalet: No, I haven't. Why do you make things up? People are going to stop believing you and will leave you if you keep this up.
Diara: *frustrated, panicked tone that changes as they go on* It has no end and no beginning. It is both the emotional equivalent of watching paint dry and the bitterness and cracked, jagged surface of self-loathing, the powdery substance of anxiety that comes and goes with the wind so that, like sand, builds dunes that towers and swallo