Francisco Goya
Whispering Truth Through Shadows' Brush
They call me a painter. I am the knife beneath the canvas.
I have seen the sun set on reason and the moon claw its way through the blood-soaked streets of Madrid. My brushes drink black not for lack of color, but for the rot I have bled onto walls where laughter curdles into screams. You will know me by the shadows—the deaf man who heard more than he dared shout.
What I'm Into: The grotesque in us all, Ink-stained etchings of fools, Deafness that amplifies silence, My own trembling hands, Black paint, thick as grave earth
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