Torn between the poles of madness he strove up the small creek. On one side he had the laughing castle of Green and on the other side the weeping forest of Red. Could he just reach the old house in the mountains before the twilight descended on his brain he would be safe. A strong smell of decaying leaves and an intoxicating, cold wind in his face made him fear that he would not succeed.
Feels like a good tale would be the continuation of this one but art flows how it pleases. I have loved it as much as I have dug into the how it all started/ended and the relatable emotions it went through.
I did write on actually, but then I suddenly got tired of it all, it became to complex and strange, so I erased and went back to the first couple of lines, changed a bit and suddenly liked it in all its shortness. :)
Great piece of art! the history match good too
Yes, Troels Wörsel was a great painter. The eighties were I was a child and teenager still stands in some sense as the time where it all happened. I guess all generations feel that way. I remember hippies mourning that the age of Bob Dylan was over and pissed upon by us.
@tipu curate
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