I thought about Goya’s The Giant last night. I imagined him wandering into the desert alone seeking solitude. It is not because he is inherently detached from the people he left. Quite the opposite, I think maybe it was because he has become too attached to them. Perhaps these attachments carry a great burden even for him who is a giant. And so there he is, in the desert, surrounded by emptiness, just the moon and the stars above and the infinite sky that lets him breathe more deeply. I could see him sitting with his mind slowly spilling thoughts like sand spilling in the wind. There is a sense of unburdening, a sense of bleeding. Perhaps after his mind has been emptied he would be left with nothing but sadness that is ultimately comforting. And though he has turned his back, he is compelled to steal a melancholic glance from where he has been. He does this not in anticipation of anything and definitely not out of regret. He is simply looking back before he finally looks away.