Here's the recent comic, then. The topic of the Festival is 'Urban Myths'. I didn't like it, but I think I came up with worthwhile stuff.
http://www.locustleaves.com/vavelmockup.pngClick above for bigger, but look at the smaller one so you can get the holistic effect. This is four a4 pages, made to be seamless (more or less) at the edges. A few errors there are because of the scanning. In real life it tiles better.
And here is the translation of the texts, starting on the western page, then the eastern page, then the north page and finally the south one.
West:
"In front of a hotel there lived and died, unable to grasp the irony, a homeless man who had long forgotten his name.
Surrounded by alleycats while he was alive, they still linger there between the alley and the street, they scratch at the recently-repainted wall for unknown reasons.
Every few years, one of them dies there and the hotel employees find her from the smell.
The building bears deeper scars than a coat of paint can ever hope to cover. A riddling message in latin has been sealed by six lost lives.
The seventh will be the last."
East:
"In a hotel room a young man moves a simplistic painting by Theofillos (greek folk painter) and writes behind it on the wall, nervously, guilt-ridden, the truth. The words are many, he is forced to deposit ten years of his life in a hidden rectangle.
Nobody would ever understand. He returns every few years to this rom, lies down on the bed never looking behind the blue-eyed angel who keeps - does he still? - discreetly, his secret. Only he feels like amputees feel their phantom limbs, thin air. A weight rests at the edge of his bed.
her
The angel loves him because he suffers, but
Does he remember anything anymore?"
North:
"In the rooftop of a hotel there lies a briefcase, expertly hidden between the airconditioning vents.
Inside it there are documents whom the owner could not entrust to anyone. He hopes to return to them when the time is right.
The rain and moisture creep through the ever-so-thin seams of the briefcase, they melt methodically the paper, depositing the hopes of a human being in the cement and piping that surrounds passing strangers."
South:
"In the basement of a hotel there twists and turns a black heart wrapped in leaves of the locust tree, buried three palms down. Like the mishappen birth who turns its gray head and pleads, in its breath tall cypresses
an apology
an apology
an apology
it pleads you to listen to it one more time."
That's it.
