The Blank Canvas
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Edvard Munch (1863-1944)
Munch goes into the Grand Café in Karl Johans gate, Oslo.
E: Morning, Jakob.
J: Morning, Edvard. What's wrong? You look very down.
E: It's the anniversary of Sophie's death.
J: Sophie? Your sister?
E: Yes, the eldest, my favourite.
J: How long is it now?
E: Ten years. But the image never goes.
J: What image?
E: Sophie in her last days. Sitting propped up in bed. Pale. Aunt Karen by her side.
J: Very sad. Why don't I get you a drink?
E: Thanks, Jakob. Pint of Gårdsøl, please.
Jakob pulls the pint.
J: Here you are. Now, anything else bothering you?
E: The bloody migraines.
J: Have you had one recently?
E: Just yesterday evening. I went up the Ekebergskrenten with my friends Hans and Henrik to take in the view.
J: Nice.
E: I could feel the migraine starting as we left Olaf Ryes plass. By the time we got to the top I was in agony.
J: Ouch!
E: Apart from the pain, the attacks play havoc with my vision. Last night the sky seemed to go red and yellow, the fjord dark and swirly. Hans and Henrik looked like stick insects.
J: What did you do?
E: Only one thing seems to work. I have to press the palms of my hands over my ears and temples, hard. And howl like a banshee.
J: Dramatic.
E: Yes. Everybody must have thought I was a raging nutter.

Cheat if you must ;-)
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