“A lone dark-cloaked wanderer standing on a rocky precipice above a sea…”

“The lone, dark cloaked one—ah, my own shadow turned pilgrim. He stands at the world’s rim, yet sees my churning hells below. This sublime fog is but pride’s veil. I would have him turned, facing the burning spires, not lost in romantic longing.”

“This lone, dark-cloaked figure commands the precipice, yet the raging fantasia below steals his solitude. The sublime is not in nature's quiet terror but in Bosch's noisy chaos. You have shrouded his contemplation, and”