The artist takes me somewhere. I become anxious… I do not trust. I look around myself. Voices reverberate in my ear; a loud murmur. The continual sound of words, meaningless words. The sound of water. Silence. The silence of those watching from the above.

Happiness. Dance. Clapping. A sense of freedom. The illogical sense of joy. The unreasonable sense of madness. An unmatched feeling of folly. A sense of laughter.

A sense of crying. Some kind of suppressed shouting. The sense of continual frozen looks. The sense of not seeing. Not being able to see. Wandering. Revolt. Chaos. There is a sound, ‘Everything is under control.’

‘Some crazy people… So what?’ He is right.

The colours are so cold that I feel cold. I’m afraid of those watching from the above. Of the censors of the madhouse. There is no definition for a madhouse. Definitions are fluid in madhouses, be it for joy or sorrow or shouting, revolt, liberation or suppression.

I  touch the painting, hear it and like it.