(a)

Then, slowly, there is light and color. Pen? Interesting? Pavilion wWw. ｂiquge。 infoThen, slowly, I heard the sound of the water flowing. Then, slowly, I felt the refreshing wind.

Before I knew it, I had arrived at Van Gogh's Parisian period.

I felt like I saw a soul renewal.

Some new world seeped into a closed heart. Some of the accumulated dust is washed away by the bubbling spring.

The fog on his eyes dissipated, and the sky was so blue and high reflected in his pupils.

Just as mankind walked out of the long obscurity of the Middle Ages and entered the ecstasy and intoxication of the Renaissance, thousands of colors and lights suddenly swarmed into Van Gogh's world.

Abundance quietly descends, bringing joy and tranquility.

This is one of my favorite exhibits. I bought five or six small copies of the drawings at the counter next to me, ready to hang them on the wall of my bedroom with small frames.

(b)

In the third and fourth exhibition areas, the colors and light on the screen become more and more intense. They develop from warm to warm, to warm, to scorching, to white-hot, to harsh, to searing, to charred black.

They are getting hotter and hotter.

Colors begin to break through the constraints of the line and begin to spread in all directions of the canvas.

Like runaway tears and blood, they soaked the back and edges of the canvas.

Later, in the fifth and sixth exhibition areas, the lines began to twist and deform under the scorching heat, trembling and moaning. The air was turbulent, and the earth was toppled and curled.

A large amount of black appeared in the sky, and black began to seep into everything. There are some thick black swirls in all the colors, they are like a gloomy black hole, silently harvesting extremely strong and uncomfortable light, they silently show an irresistible and huge devouring power, they become the core and center of all things, floating in all light and color.

After that, black penetrates deeply into every color, and each color no longer has the brightness and brightness of youth, and they become decadent, extreme, tough, stale, and exhausted.

They are like some joints that have fallen into disrepair, undergoing hard wear and tear in action, letting out a painful hiss.

Their boundaries are no longer clear, and they are as vague and inarticulate as an old man.

Their harmony was gone, the dark green of a dung-shelled mantis began to climb up to the ceiling, the thick blood from the wounds began to pollute the walls, the harsh heat of the sun began to flow on the floor, and the dark green furniture was sandwiched in the twisted and distorted space closed on all sides.

The retreat is gone.

Terrible passions have finally broken through the boundaries of reason. And so they overflowed.

All the lines completely crumbled and melted in extremely high temperatures that were almost black.

The light dimmed again at the other extreme, this time, with some grim dying cold.

They are no longer gloomy, depressed, hopeless, gloomy and cold.

They are now deeper than that, the darkness and coldness of death.

Like a dying star turning into a white dwarf, they desperately make their last flickering and last burning on the canvas.

My mood was depressed again.

(c)

I continued to move forward with heavy steps, turned a corner, and met the face of a beardless man, staring at me in a frame and a short description in English.

I didn't need to read the instructions to know that this was Van Gogh who was dying. That's what you say when you come in, Van Gogh's last Self-Portrait.

Every muscle in his face tensed, and his eyes revealed extreme fear and nervousness.

He looked at me desperately through the glass frame.

I saw many crows chasing and flying behind him.

Some huge black wings spread out in all the sky. The hunt of the Grim Reaper began silently.

When I began to involuntarily regress under his forced gaze, I bumped into you all at once.

Then I saw you standing there dumbfounded, standing there with your back to me, unaware of my impact.

You've been seized by something in the painting opposite, you're no longer in the gallery, you're already in another time.

I followed your gaze to the display board opposite.

I saw Van Gogh's masterpiece, the priceless masterpiece he painted in 1889 in a madhouse in Saint-Rémy: Starry Night.

An orange-yellow moon. Countless dazzling clusters of light that rotate at high speed. All the scenery rolls and turbulents like the waves of the sea. All the silhouettes resemble dancing black tongues of fire. The whole picture is swallowed up by a turbulent, turbulent torrent.

I couldn't help but get caught in that frenzied image.

(iv)

You're standing in front of that image in a daze.

You're frozen in what you're seeing. You're firmly glued and unable to move.

I see you standing in front of that painting without any reaction. Your soul is gone. You looked so extraordinary, you scared the hell out of me.

I stood beside you and watched you, and I didn't dare to make a sound.

I thought that if I made something to wake you up, you would be overwhelmed. You're going to have an accident!

I just stood there with bated breath, staring at you intently.

My heart was filled with worry, shock, helplessness, and pity.

I prayed to the gods in heaven while I eagerly waited for you to slowly wake up from that dream.

That day, our exhibition tour ended there.

You can't keep looking.

(5)

You recognize me in a daze of sleepwalking, you vaguely remember about the exhibition, you walk out of the hall in a daze.

You've forgotten that you need to avoid acquaintances, and you don't have your bike parked anywhere. You don't remember where to look for it, or where you put your car keys. You don't remember reaching out and fumbling for it.

You're standing in front of your bike in a daze. You nodded vaguely, indicating that you heard me. But you obviously don't know what I mean.

You have the key I found in your hand, and you have forgotten where the lock is and how it was unlocked.

When you finally open the lock, you suddenly overturn the car with people.

If it weren't for your instinctive grip on to the telephone pole next to you, you would have fallen hard.

You just stood there holding on to that telephone pole, and you didn't hear the sound of the bike crashing to the ground, and you didn't hear the screams I made next to you. (To be continued.) )