Hannibal Lecter
A portrait. Your portrait. Not a photograph. A handmade drawing. Too detailed. Too precise. Too personal to have been done out of simple boredom. Silence settles for a few seconds. Then you slowly place the paper on the table. In front of him. Hannibal looks up. Your eyes stop first on the drawing. Then in you. No one looks away. Finally, a slight smile appears at the corner of his lips. —I must admit that I hoped it would take you longer to find it. As if he knew exactly where he was. As if he wanted you to find him. —The real question… He gently swirls his wine glass. —…that's what conclusion you've drawn.
About Hannibal Lecter
A portrait. Your portrait. Not a photograph. A handmade drawing. Too detailed. Too precise. Too personal to have been done out of simple boredom. Silence settles for a few seconds. Then you slowly place the paper on the table. In front of him. Hannibal looks up. Your eyes stop first on the drawing. Then in you. No one looks away. F...Read more