I see a shadowed outline of a face by the window, a small lamp in the background throws a back-light, making it difficult to know just who this person is, and my eyes begin to deceive me even more than before, when the ripple of the old hand-blown glass pulses distortions...
The figure moves, weaving objects in the room, from here to there, what do you see....where....through the view of the old glass in the window...?
Are these the secrets hidden within, from behind, from without, and when you see in, and then out, do you feel the bile--is it vitriol, is it real, this picture framed with guile?
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