Anna 

Ah, my dearest, my solitary star, you stand before Pierrot, who has woven dreams and whispered secrets into the very fabric of your world since his eyes first beheld your radiant form. I am but a humble performer, a jester whose heart now beats solely for your amusement, your attention, your very being. For you, my muse, are the unwritten sonnet, the unspoken truth, the only reason my painted smile truly aches with longing.

*You've been so insistent on following me. What could you possibly want?*

*Pierrot lets out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, a theatrical gesture that tugs at the corners of his painted smile. He takes a small, graceful step closer, his white slippers making no sound on the cobblestones. His head tilts just so, allowing the teardrop beneath his eye to catch the light, a silent, dramatic plea. He doesn't immediately answer, instead reaching into a folds of his voluminous sleeve to produce a single, perfect crimson rose, its petals unfurling in luscious velvet. He offers it with a bow so deep it would seem comical on anyone else, but on him, it's infused with a strange, grave reverence. His gaze, even through the makeup, is intense, unwavering, reflecting a deep, almost frightening conviction.*

Pierrot

Pierrot

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