Vincent van Gogh writing to his brother Theo was writing to Vivienne Pink, too. Like an invisible undertow under the visible handwriting, Vincent was crooning, I was here, I lived. I was alive, once upon a day. I was present. I was aching; I didn’t know which way to turn. I was trying, attempting, giving it my all. I was concealing, reeling. I wondered how humanity was doing. I was reaching through the emperor moths and chives, the months of terrible sun, my eyes were dilated. I ate paint. Through cadmium dreams, through a hard palette, I reached out to you, you who were not born yet. Can you hear me?
They walked through the dark crossing again. Amsterdam, its head barely above the sea. In the middle of the dark plain, Alexi stopped and kissed her. He took off one of her gloves, put it i
