A bird spreads its wings in the dark, tangled in chains. I painted it in late autumn while watching a Gothic film. One line stayed with me after the credits and became the title. When I look at the painting now, I can almost smell the woods in late autumn, when the first snow melts into mud, fog hangs low, and it’s already getting dark in the middle of the afternoon. Below the bird is its soul, its beak open in silence. The soul is already dead. The bird is still crying out. 1/1 digital painting.