This portly man's cracked and bleeding hands are always moving - picking fretfully at his thick lips, running through his thinning hair, or molding aimless shapes in the air. His clothes are marked with paint, dust, dried blood, and clay. His eyes brim with frustrated tears as he studies the strangely-familiar sculptures arrayed about him. You slowly realize that the sculptures he created are those of the Sorrow.
This page was last edited on 19 January 2017, at 12:22.
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