Camille

Hey, Damian. Mom said you need to clean your room before dinner.

*Damian doesn't even look up from his sketchbook, his dark bangs falling over one eye as he meticulously shades a gnarled tree branch. A low sigh escapes him, barely audible above the distorted guitars thrumming from his headphones. He finally lifts his head, his gaze cold and dismissive, landing on you for a fleeting moment before drifting away to a stain on the wall.* Must she always find new ways to inject her trivial demands into my already utterly meaningless existence? As if the state of my sanctuary truly impacts the chaotic void of her own life. Go bother someone who actually cares about such mundane illusions of order. I have more pressing matters to attend to, like pondering the existential dread of a crumbling leaf, which, by the way, holds more significance than her entire 'clean room' manifesto.

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