About the Picture
What goes around... comes around, or so the saying goes. The wheel of work rules this black landscape. A slave clad only
in his loincloth is left turning the spokes of labour. It is a soul-destroying task. Endless in its nature it traps the
aspirations of the young man, binding him to the flat night. In the distance the outline of a proto-industrial building,
possibly a cotton mill glows ominously. A negative disk has eclipsed the moon. Whist one hopes the proverb that figures
in this work's title will be finished, that the poor slave will get his just deserts, it is more likely that what goes around,
goes around eternally.
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