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"The Scream" (Edvard Munch)... in Flames
#creativepower7
The fire rose like hungry tongues on the horizon, devouring the sky with an orange tear. The city behind burned in an impossible silence, stifled screams that never became a voice.
He was there, standing on the bridge, his mouth open in an eternal scream. He did not remember his own name. He only knew that the heat was tearing off his skin like dry leaves, that his shadow was trembling and melting under the incandescent light.
The others were running. Faceless shadows that were consumed before reaching the sea. But he could not move. His desperation had become a statue, sculpted in a grotesque form. His hands, clenched against his face, could not cover the roar of the fire devouring everything.
As the flames reached his skin, he understood that his scream was not because of pain. It was not because of death. It was because deep down, in the depths of his being, he knew that this fire had not come from outside.
He had been born inside her. 3 replies
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