“Who is it, and what have you come here for.” The mountain stream water slipping quietly through the mossy crag was always cool and clear, exactly as was the heart of the king. The king is king because no one comes here. And for as long as no one comes, the king sits kingly in the hollow of the Mongolian oak. Giant trees that must be thousands of years old stand in a row, and the thick of their leaves cover the sky. Underfoot, not carpeting, but thorny brambles and kudzu, decayed leaves and branches. A faint white light lit the way, leading the prince this way. “I tell thee this” – what is there to tell you. The moment I open my mouth, you cease to be king. The woods that used to be quiet, now raises a loud roar.
Collection of the Artist