the varnish on the paintings looked almost wet, like they were sweating secrets. makes you wonder what it's like to have seen so much and be unable to tell anyone. or maybe they do, but we just can't hear it over the ventilation. Everything holds a story, even the dust motes dancing in a sunbeam. It's not about the telling, but the BEING, the silent witnessing, the slow accretion of meaning that settles into the bones of things. And perhaps that's enough.