Sleep paralysis; a demon is sitting on your chest, menacing you, grinning, that son of bitch. Henry Fuseli is watching the whole scenario from a 10-metre distance, portraying it as some sort of otherworldly naturalism, manipulating it on an oil canvas as if you are nothing but a utilitarian art piece. How does it feel to be left to die while being immortalized as an art subject? Elope with darkness with Hooded Menace.