Started reading letters of Vincent Van Gogh yesterday. Vincent has always fascinated me. His name is synonymous to madness. Checked several books on him and finally found the edition by Penguin classics. It looked good enough to start and so I started reading. Continuing to read as I write this. Reading his second letter known to man. It’s another feeling to imagine Van Gogh sitting wherever he sat and writing that letter. It makes me think, can I do the same? Can I write a letter? Maybe I can, but really, who will want to read my letters? And moreover, who would I like to send my letters to? Really, who would I want to send my letters too? And really, who would be waiting for my letters to arrive? Maybe some mad dog on some crooked road waiting for his next shot of adrenaline. Maybe such a dog, yeah, and if not him then nobody else would be waiting. Thinking of making another cup of coffee. This night will be spent like that – Van Gogh, coffee, cigarettes, no dinner probably. I need to change the music on my speakers. Changing now.
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