The Tales of the Harlot & the Harlequin

By a fellow Pierrot

Thank you, Rachel.

The Bystander

Begone, Harlot. The stage grows tired of your unprovoking pole dance and your audience has long since departed.


Unsure of what you want or desire, you take what life gives you: the Fruit of Pleasure in any way, shape or form. That’s your nature, my precious Queen.

Being an object of desire, your Beauty is without peer, but your own desires and dreams wane in comparison of your Splendor, my beautiful raison d’être.


You dream to escape being an object and settle down in a cerulean sky of peace. Nonetheless it rests in a resolution that is not your own. Your hopes reside in the actions of someone outside of your circle of control.

You hope to catch up with the key of your dream and at the same time not willing to let go the Fruit of Pleasure. That antithesis defines the very core of your simple existence.


A simple existence, devoid of the threads of fate and full of plainness is your greatest bliss and your greatest curse.

Will you try to change your nature, dear Harlot? Until the resolution of your dream is not your own, your life will be the simplest ever. So how it will be?




The Performer

Begone, Harlequin. The stage grows tired of your wooden performance and your audience has long since departed.

The threads of fate are too strong for you. The sweet release from fate is just a delusion for you, my little Marionette.

To be a slave of your passion and the devotion to an uninterested crowd is a sad jest that suits you very well, my Pierrot.

Craving for a standing ovation, the manifestation of The Love you have desired so much, that have been denied by the writing of the stars; you gave it all in an unending and passionate performance.

Reminiscent of the past long gone, you crave for the pleasant moments in the past; nevertheless you tend to forget the pain you lived before. This is your sad consolation, for the stigma that burns and beats in the core of your existence.

Only a White Requiem, a colorless funeral march, will suit you in your undying loneness. The conflagration in your heart will be the Pyre and the Burned Effigy of your unanswered dreams.

Will you try again, my Harlequin? Remember, what you want is not the same that what you are meant to be. Maybe, by the time you go back to the stage, at least hope to be as cold as Selene that lights the azure sky.

Magill, the Pierrot