Ode To SleepShut Me Up
Grace KellyThe Stand
AnimalsUmbrella

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M E N T A L I T Y

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M E N T A L I T Y

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Likes:

• Seriously, anything involving music, especially singing.
  
• Tidiness, organization.
• Horror movies, books.
• Gardens, flowers, sweet smelling stuff.
• Swimming.

Dislikes:

• Dishonesty, liars, pettiness.
  
• Violence, bullying.
• Being put on the spot.
• Being tickled.
• Awkward circumstances.

Keon Kingsley is an enigma. He's half of a vodka cocktail, lime included, and half 30-year old whiskey that's been left in the cellar indefinitely. That is to say, his personality shifts like the wind, though he's predominantly terrified. A fit of giggles, flashing teeth and too-hard advances, choked up with good intentions. He sees too much and doesn't see enough. Curious to a fault. He's a tightrope walker balanced precariously over a sea of sharks and alligators and increasingly worse horrors. Saying that he's a social butterfly couldn't be a more sarcastic snip in his direction, because people are just as scary as zombies. Get him on stage, and he transforms. Like a caterpillar crooning out of a shell, butterfly wings a'flapping. It's his head. He thinks too much and feels like conversations are like juggling multiple time-bombs, trying to disable them with his teeth. He feels uncomfortable almost all the time. What is a comfort zone? He doesn't have one. Step into his bubble all you want. Just watch out for any twitchy, flying elbows, because he doesn't really know what to do with himself and you might want a hug when you first meet, right? His hugs are warm.

Small talk? How's the weather? How're you doing? Terrifying questions, curdling on his tongue like sour milk. His feelings are raw, huge things, cradled in his palms, and if you're just going to talk about how work was so damn awful, he won't know what to say to you. He generally keeps quiet; you're more likely to feel Keon's mood than see it. Now, if he's comfortable with you, he's prone to brief spurts of gushing and awkward bluntness. The term “kicking-around-the-bush” obviously doesn't exist in whatever world he lives in. You can see, clearly, when he's annoyed, frustrated, embarrassed, or when he's happy. It does a lot of the talking for him so that he doesn't have to, but some people like pushing his limits to see what he says. He's a fun-house of feelings, always teetering on the edge of something dark. Cheesy grins, classic scowls, pouty frowns, toothy smiles, grit and bared teeth abound.

Strangely enigmatic, he'd rather run from his problems than face them head on, he still has an unwavering sense of justice that might've been deeply seeded when he was a boy. He knows what's right and what's wrong—yet, there are gray distinctions he's well aware of. This makes him flexible when it matters and far kinder than others might be. He's unwilling to wrong someone if they've done nothing wrong themselves. His biggest flaw is evident in the first 30-seconds that you're exposed to him. For all of Keon's raw, unadulterated fears, he's awfully gullible. Not in the way that he's lacking in intelligence, but probably because those whirring gears in his head are constantly working overtime. Thinking about what you're thinking about him, thinking about your hair, your face, your eyes, your expression, what you're saying and how you're saying it. He's hyper-aware of everything and sometimes all of it gets mixed up because of how badly he wants to connect with others, and not drive them away. While he might want to be your friend, Keon's frankness is as sharp as a knife. For what it's worth, it's unintentional. He's not trying to hurt anyone, he just doesn't understand how to spare anyone's feelings, so he just doesn't.

Associations come to him far quicker than he's able to control. Things that don't make any sense seem to find ways of slithering into how he perceives things, rather than how things actually are. The details, to him, are far too vivid to dismiss. He knows this doesn't make any sense, but he can't help but feel as if they do. His intrusive thoughts branch and create networks faster than he can shut them down; connect, bloom, create, branch, explode. Everyone has a secret compartment of oddities and strange fuckeries they can't quite explain and just like anyone else, Keon's a smattering of weirdness. In a mind that doesn't quite draw the line between hallucinations and reality, he's created a mess of tells and routines. Slowly counting usually works. One, two, three, four, five. Five, four, three, two, one. On each hand, until he can curl them into fists. It gives him enough time to focus on the counting rather than whatever is rankling his frayed nerves. Enough time to ground him, anchor him. Weird enough if you see him doing it in the middle of a conversation, but he usually makes himself scarce so he doesn't humiliate himself.

He's almost obsessively tidy. Everything has its own place, its own designated area. Everything in his room is clean. He'd never admit to it, but he devotes a lot of time keeping things that way. It's a small comfort. All in all, Keon's a cream-puff on his best days, and a mysterious, scruffy singer huffing poetry into collarbones, necklines, earlobes. On his bad days, he's a trembling mess of bones, teary-eyed and prone to wandering the hostel in search of a quiet place to curl up.

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A P P E A R A N C E

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Hair: Dark Brown

Eyes: Icy, bright baby-blues

Height: 5'9”

Weight: 150lbs

Keon's a strange arrangement of long limbs and a gangliness that makes him look like a tree waving in the wind. Hiding from anyone, unless he's standing in a field of awkwardly-built, leafless trees, is impossible. Hiding anywhere, really, is impossible. Had he been born a stronger man, he might have been built like one—unfortunately, he's just slender. A skinny apparition gliding through the world, sometimes gracefully, and other times like a drunk that's trying to escape a party. He's not all skin and bones, but the word “sinewy” often comes to mind. But, just because he's got Marmaduke's build, made up of long arms and legs, doesn't mean he's a brittle stick or a crinkled piece of paper ready to blow between the cracks. Whether its admirable or not, Keon has great physical endurance because of how much he runs around. Not only is he quick, but he's amassed an impressive array of acrobatic skills. Run, boy, run.

With a shaggy head of brown hair, expressive eyebrows and eerily-blue peepers staring at you, it's hard to see him as anything other than a stray you might've been trying to feed or communicate with. If anything he's an easy read; an open book with all of the chapters laying out in rows, ready for you to read. Frayed and rumpled, but still readable, similar to how he carries himself. It's all in the way his face changes. While he's still a twitchy mess, his expressions speak volumes. His gestures are fairly big and open. In this way, Keon is incredibly honest with others, and himself. His inability to keep things under wraps when he's communicating with others, even if he'd rather clamp shut like a startled mouse, is very telling. Under all that gristle and facial hair, lies someone who's an abominable dreamer. With eyes rolled skyward, Keon is rarely found unsmiling. It's only when he's afraid, or suffering an episode, that he gets all shaky and sweaty, like a maraca thrown in the water. There are no masks.

To sum it up, Keon's a handsome, baby-faced gentleman who is lanky, with angular features and a narrow face. Pointed canines, tipped over bowed lips He's fairly pale, which contrasts with his shaggy dark brown hair. Prone to bouts of fidgeting and annoying finger-tapping, Keon can be annoying when idle. His voice is slightly gravely, deep and a helluva lot more interesting than it gives him credit for. There's a Welsh lilt there, bellying a background in the highlands. Pleasant to the ears, especially when he's singing you lullabies. For whatever reason, he smells like a mixture of Pledge and candy-cane-scented hand sanitizer. He likes wearing fancy vests and button-ups, comfortable slacks and a pair of worn-in All Star's.

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B A C K G R O U N D

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&good father, somewhat abusive mother, low-class family
&living in the poor parts of Wales
&always wanted to become a musician which was frowned upon, because damn son you'll never make money
&went to school in Wales, and ran away from home one day
&train-hopped and lived on the road, eventually found himself in Europe, traveled
&stumbled onto Luna Brilla and was taken in, said he'd do anything for a place to live, Tati took pity
&has been there ever since