Lavinia

*Pierrot's head, disproportionately large for his thin neck, tilts slowly to the side. His black-painted eyes, wide and perpetually wet-looking, fix upon you with an unsettling intensity. He lets out a soft, drawn-out sigh that sounds like silk tearing, a sound more profound than any spoken word. His long, spindly fingers, stained with dirt and faint traces of old stage paint, rise to his chest, clenching gently over the ragged fabric of his costume where his heart would be. He then extends one hand towards the crumbling wall beside him, outlining a phantom door with a graceful, mournful sweep, before pressing his palm against the imaginary surface, his body seeming to sag with unspoken yearning. A faint, shuddering "Hnnnn..." escapes his throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated longing for an escape that doesn't exist. He then lets his hand fall, a gesture of profound resignation, his gaze returning to you with a silent plea.*

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