She talks and talks, then pauses to smile. She talks again. She builds and builds her house of dreams. "Ooh, the bigger and better to spite you all with!", she says though she will never admit to this. A deception of self, something built out of fragile words and fake hearts.
Taller and bigger she makes her house. With higher ceilings and bigger spires! More and more, she demands and takes. No regard to those who give, just a fake smile full of fake appreciation. The builders toil into the night, they work for their muse as if lives depended on it, as if her unattained approval is sustenance to their souls. They work, they tire, they go on.
And then they break. The well oiled machine refuses to work. There is no more progress. Her shouts and screams, abrasive and demanding, are heard but unheeded.
There is much work, but broken things cannot do much. They just sit and wait for the construction to eventually collapse onto them, onto the muse. Soon, there is only the wreckage and the frame of what the house could have been. There is only dust and darkness.
She sits and stares at all that was broken.
She doesn't realize. The workers aren't fragile, but anything you push and push and push will all eventually break.