He was born, he painted, he died.
- Baudelaire
Vincent is insane and most afternoons his brushes are caught in a color confusion. Al's mornings are in color five times in his eyes, and once in black and white so often he finds himself sitting alone under the stars Dipped in a giant gray-blue you know? Seven-year-old Vincent coughed twice in his bed and was also naughty, weeping with his mouth deflated. He couldn't find the sunflower in his dream
On the last day of summer, the black cat came to the Dubini Gardens for the last time, leaving only a warm red dirt, and whose footsteps cluttered under the dewy balcony all night Vincent, so fast, Blood seeps again from your cut right ear Look in the little yellow house you just painted and he doesn't notice you and no one notices you the weight of your ears that you lose in an instant You lose them again , on the last day
"Although we will be able to weigh every ear of wheat in a field many years from now with absolutely untold dollars, we will never find that familiar shy smile on your rough face, though we will never walk in Paint the yellow bridge or the lonely sail on the sloop... Crows fly over the icy city again, or we still don't understand that in the end it's just a dying candle,"
The other one has long since gone out. "Vincent woke up on an equally dreary afternoon, remembering something he had said before the age of seven that wasn't really intended. "And then what? "You'll go to England, Paris, sell paintings there, fall in love, get rejected, lose your job, be a missionary in a coal mine, get fired, fall in love again, get rejected again, become an artist, and The prostitutes combined, painted 800 paintings, went crazy in Provence, spent a year in the hospital, and committed suicide at the age of 37. " "Can my painting be sold?" "
"A picture!" In their world, there are often such hallucinations: weeping, women with heads holding their heads, sowers, juveniles mowing grass, potato eaters, old men slowly disappearing in the last light of the twilight Too many faces deeply soaked in salt... In the field where the sunflowers were plowed Vincent picked out the first seven or thirteen in the myth he might have, like the sea like tears Just like wet eyes
The sunflowers are counted. The salt pool of this memory is so salty that a man trembled before the night to grab the last paintbrush with both hands and tomorrow every sunflower will come back to its own home and their long crow feet will stretch out in the ground, These shivering sunflowers In a small sloping house in Al, sunflowers squeezed into the same deep pupil I saw golden petals peeling off Vincent holding a bouquet, what did he see
Right here we heard the last shot, and all the crows screamed and disappeared over the wheat field, the last secret continued to breed in the crow's flight "I want to say, I'm not some weird..." He was in our "Don't let God forsake us..." "Yes, death is always there, Vincent, you will leave in black in tomorrow's wagon and crash into the dark seabed of the Atlantic Ocean.…”
In July, every one of us living will fall in love with a dead man and listen to the truest singing from the depths of hell. During this month, every night I am plagued by thirst and sleeplessness Lovers are like a child in front of them I will go out of my way to think of you first Vincent Vincent but soon you rot with my body
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