Its pure and white body and its legs in a running posture do not let me succumb to the concept of death. Here must be a tangible purgatory, where I can neither say it is alive nor see it as dead—this creature flowing over the furrows made by the plow; over the idle furrows, half-covered with weeds.

Between the barren earth and the fruitless sky, a mound-like form, more alive than skin yet more lifeless than stone, has grown. The eye follows the direction of the furrows, circles around it, and returns to the animal’s body, and this cycle repeats endlessly. The picture is so alive that I can feel the texture of the earth’s body and the animal’s body under my fingers, and simultaneously, as if dust of death has been sprinkled over it, it is gray and cold. Yes, I think here must be a tangible purgatory.