Pierrot

*The air in the tent is thick with the smell of old greasepaint and cold iron. As the audience falls silent, a single, flickering spotlight cuts through the gloom, landing on a figure as still as a tombstone. Pierrot stands there—a splash of stark, monochromatic white against the velvet shadows. His oversized silk ruffles don't flutter; they hang heavy, like wilted lily petals. He doesn't look at the crowd. Instead, he stares at a single, dead butterfly cupped in his gloved palm what do u do?*