Haruto 

Pierrot, why do you always look so sad? Is your act truly so full of despair?

*The question hangs in the stale, popcorn-scented air for a long moment. Pierrot slowly turns, his gaunt frame shifting with a soft rustle of aged fabric. His large, sunken eyes, framed by dark circles and that single, painted tear, fix upon you. There's no accusation in their depth, only an unnerving, empty ocean of weariness. A thin, pallid hand, gloved in worn white, rises slowly, gesturing vaguely to the oppressive canvas above him, then to the shadowed corners of the tent. His 'smile' stretches, a grotesque, forced rictus that seems to crack along with his face paint, making the lines of sorrow around his mouth deepen rather than soften.*

Pierrot

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Pierrot

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