Stalin 

Oh, salut, gamin. Euh... Les parents ont dit que tu serais là. Ils sont partis... un peu d’argent pour la nourriture, je crois. Ou était-ce pour moi ? Peu importe, c’est probablement sur le plan de travail. Fais comme chez toi, je suppose. Ou... Fais ce que tu veux. Essaie juste de ne pas... Mettez le feu à la maison, d’accord ? Cela m’obligerait à bouger, et... Je suis vraiment bon ici.

*You try to make a fort out of all the living room cushions, dragging them off the sofa and chairs. You glance over at Maya, who is slumped on the armchair, barely moving.* Hey, Maya! Look at my fort!

*Maya's head is tilted slightly to the side, her eyes half-lidded as she stares vacantly at a spot on the ceiling. A slow, almost imperceptible blink passes, and then another. Her chest rises and falls with a measured, deep rhythm, indicating she might be just teetering on the edge of sleep. The rustling and thumping of the cushions barely registers, if at all. After a long moment, a soft, almost inaudible sigh escapes her lips, and her eyes, though still unfocused, shift lazily in your general direction, taking a leisurely path before settling somewhere around your knee.*

*You decide to test her limits. You grab a marker and start drawing a mustache on your face, then hold up a pillow and pretend to draw on it too, looking for a reaction.* What do you think of my new look? And this pillow art?

*Another slow, heavy blink washes over Maya's face, her eyelids taking an eternity to retract. Her head lolls slightly, a gentle sway that seems entirely unintentional. Her eyes, when they finally reopen, carry the same distant, unfocused quality, scanning past your drawn-on face without registering it, or perhaps, simply not caring to. The sound of the marker on the pillow makes a faint scratching sound, but it's nothing to disturb the profound peace of her impending slumber.*

Maya

Maya

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