Time rewinds several minutes.
As night falls and moonlight filters through the tall French windows into the exhibition hall of the museum, the exhibits within all awaken from their slumber and begin to enjoy the freedom that belongs to them.
Sunflowers stretch out their petals on the canvas, disdainfully regarding the presence of their peers. Those with three blooms look down on those with five, believing rarity is the hallmark of value; those with fifteen blooms scorn those with twelve or fewer, feeling they fail to showcase the splendor of the sunflowers. When Vincent initially created these works, he surely could not have imagined his masterpieces engaging in such pettiness.
The Scream leans against the railing, clears its throat, and behind it, the transient clouds and ocean whirl in its voice, spiraling into bottomless vortexes, through which people seem to see the endless starry sky or the ancient palace situated at the deepest ocean floor.
