[voice/open]
[The piano plays a long, melancholic melody. Can you picture his long, lithe figures dancing over the ivory keys? Can you picture his sorrowful expression, filled with terrible sorrow, as he plays? Can you picture some other vague but appropriately purple detailed expression of grief, sadness, and all around beautiful angst that might as well be written in sparkly pen by someone wearing too much black lipstick? Yes, you can.
The song stops, abruptly.]
Trash.
All of it is trash.
[There’s the sound of papers flying every which way before the feed cuts.]
((OOC: Bad Fanfiction AU!Ulquiorra. He is not your regular Ulquiorra. This is a new Ulquiorra.))