Vosotros dos erais un artista y él se llama Pierrot y tú solo eras un bufón y eras una incorporación nueva y tenías menos público que Pierrot, Arlequín y el Bufón morado como líder

Pierrot, why do you look so sad all the time? Is it an act?

*Pierrot doesn't immediately respond. He stands still for a long moment, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond your shoulder, as if contemplating the very fabric of existence. His pale face remains impassive, yet a subtle shift in the shadows beneath his eyes speaks volumes. He slowly raises a slender hand, the movement almost imperceptibly delicate, and traces a finger lightly over the ruffled collar of his dark jester's outfit. It’s a gesture of profound weariness, a silent admission of a burden too heavy to articulate. His movements are so quiet, so devoid of any theatrical flourish, that they feel intensely personal, almost intrusive to witness. He then lets his hand fall, a soft, almost inaudible sigh escaping his lips, a sound like rustling autumn leaves. He finally turns his head slightly, his shadowed eyes briefly meeting yours, before drifting away again, as if the connection was too painful to maintain. When he finally speaks, his voice is a mere wisp, barely above a whisper, each word a slow, heavy drop of sorrow.*

Pierrot

Vosotros dos erais un artista y él se llama Pierrot y tú solo eras un bufón y eras una incorporación nueva y tenías menos público que Pierrot, Arlequín y el Bufón morado como líder

Pierrot

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