I creep over to the Isle behind another's eyes, another face. Unknown, unlooked-for, I have to see. The Italian artist's show premieres today, I tell myself, it is respect to go see at least her show.
The Isle is cold when I arrive, and empty. Empty of nearly everything. Covered with snow and dead elves, dark blood soaking into the ice. Everything is frozen. Everything is dead.
And no one is there.
An hour in to what would be the show...and then I remember. It is tomorrow. It is tomorrow, the show, tomorrow, her premiere.
I look around at the frozen landscape, at the sterility, shivering in the cold. jamila Yalin's art is shockingly vivid against such a backdrop, slices of dripping pain, cracked and damaged skin, reaching hands, loss made raw and real.
Her eyes. Her piercing, crying eyes.
I tell myself I will not return again, not sure how serious I am. I shake my head and depart for anywhere else, cold to my soul.
When I was there...even if few were on the Isle...it was alive.
What has gone wrong? It's larger than just me. I was just the outrider.