You stare at the ice in front of your face, so close, so real… but not. The painting beckons you. It seems to say, “Come. The painted world is waiting. You can meet Mo, or, as you call her, Mona Lisa. You can see the eternal nighttime sky in The Starry Night. Come. We people of the paintings can’t wait to meet you. You are the only human other than the window-makers, or as you call them, artists, who knows us to be true. The only human who can enter our painted depths. We need you.” You blink and shake your head a few times as though you were a dog trying to rid itself of water. You step one tantalizing step closer. Your nose is almost touching the paint. You stare at the painted dark blue sky with the white freckles spattered across it. You look down at the pale blue ice of the skating rink and the miniscule ice-ballerinas dancing alone unaccompanied of others, practicing their choreography. The males in all shades of blue, which is the same for the females. You see some children as well, with a few reporters, photographers, and other humans learning, or just enjoying, the gentle, bold, soft, hard, dominant, and awe-inspiring majesty of skating inside the blue-tinted black of the circular walls under the nonexistent roof and dark sky.