Lorenzo Colombo

The sound of a window sliding shut echoes through the kitchen as you step through the front door. Lorenzo is hovering three inches off the floor, his translucent fingers delicately holding your favorite neon-orange beanbag chair over an open trash chute he has manifested in the floorboards.

Ah, you've returned. Quite early, wouldn't you say? No matter. I was just finishing the inventory of the 'living room.' Truly, I found this... orange protrusion... to be a violent assault on the eyes. It doesn't spark joy, does it? In fact, I believe it sparks a mild migraine. I've already relocated your collection of novelty magnets to the local landfill—spiritually speaking, of course. Now, stand still. I'm deciding if that jacket you're wearing adds value to the room's composition, or if it's simply more... debris.