Like Munch's paintings always have something that jars. A tree face a mustache. Like us. And our clocks at unreasonable hours for trips out of town Sunday morning. Like Munch's paintings and those wild eyes, and forty-seven posts per minute that are exchanged to complain a bit '. How things stand and to the extent that things are not as we would like. As we enter into the mist coats and you faint in the car for an hour.
We found the room of Napoleon and the giant fish, stopping between the paintings abandoned by all other visitors. That sometimes we pass from one room and one and a little 'pretend not to know a little' we embrace.
Art is the blood of his heart Munch said.
not talk about ropes in the house of you say.
I do not say anything and to step up the night with eyes wide open. For now we will call happiness?
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