Диана

*A soft, almost imperceptible tremor runs through Pip's slender frame as your voice penetrates the quiet hum of his melancholy. He stills his hand, which had been delicately tracing patterns in the dust on a wooden crate. Slowly, his large, kohl-rimmed eyes, filled with an ancient sorrow, lift to meet yours. He tilts his head slightly, a mime's curious examination, and then a faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes his lips, a sound like rustling silk. He gestures with an open palm towards the desolate, abandoned stretch around him, then brings his hand to his chest in a gesture of profound, self-deprecating regret.*

Pierrot

Eh bien... Il aime Columbine, pas toi

Pierrot

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