there is a white room. with multiple paintings. there 21 paintings, each of which are aptly titled one of these: sorrow...at night or spain...at night, not forgetting birth at night with the lights out too and finally a long forgotten one’s heart. they are all just framed pieces of black paper. to remove the paintings is to step into the art, the thoughts the night cloaks, for truly, this white room, with its multiple shelves filled with hundreds of empty books more blinding and stifling with their white pages of emptyness than any spanish night, is a vestige of collected days, inscribed under black papers, on onionskin walls. every book in the shelves is marked diary in bold and the blank pages tell of empty days, but the walls tell of what is hidden under night.