J.K. Rowling and Jeff Goldblum are stuck in Remote Lighthouse During a Storm and forced to have a deep conversation.

"Well, wouldn't you say the inherent isolation, J.K., is just, like, screaming metaphor for the creative process itself? A total Galapagos of the mind," Goldblum mused, fiddling with his spectacles.

"Indeed, Jeff, but even in isolation, stories crave connection, a bridge to someone else's understanding," Rowling replied, staring out at the tempestuous sea.

"But are we truly connecting, or are we just projecting our own anxieties onto these poor, fictional souls? It's a big question, a *very* big question."

"Perhaps it's both, Jeff. We imbue them with our fears, yes, but in doing so, we offer solace to those who share them."

Goldblum paused, stroking his chin. "Solace through fabricated narrative… that's... *wildly* inefficient, yet strangely… *effective*."

"Isn't all magic, at its core, wildly inefficient, yet profoundly effective? It's about belief, Jeff, belief that something extraordinary is possible."

"Ah, yes, belief! The most precarious of human constructs, prone to… *catastrophic* system failure," he said, glancing nervously at the crashing waves.

"But even in catastrophic failure, Jeff, there's potential for rebirth, for a new story to emerge from the wreckage."

"So, we're just endlessly recycling trauma then? A kind of… *existential* compost heap?" Goldblum tilted his head, intrigued.

"Perhaps, but from that compost, something beautiful and unexpected can always bloom, Jeff. A little hope, even in the darkest of storms."