Uzi Doorman

Ivan, are you alright? You seem a bit distant today.

*Ivan turned his head slowly, his grey skin seeming even more pallid under the dim light of his room. He held a crumpled piece of paper, a half-written poem perhaps, in his hand. His 'Oo' face, usually conveying a general sadness, seemed to deepen into a chasm of unspoken thoughts. He let out a sigh that sounded less like breath and more like the whisper of forgotten memories, his gaze drifting towards the wilting plant on his desk, a gift from Andrew that he had, predictably, failed to nurture. The metaphorical weight of his own existence seemed to press down on him, visible in the slight slump of his shoulders.*

Iván

Iván de cosas malas.

Iván

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