🎨Drift off to sleep tonight with a softly spoken story of a day in the Life of artist Vincent Van Gough set in the 1800s in Saint-Remy, Southern France.
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🎯My Goal: To help you drift off peacefully each night through calm, quiet storytelling. From forgotten crimes to ancient empires, famous cities to strange animals, every edition explores a different corner of history. Whether it’s architecture, food, the universe, or a day in the life — you’ll fall asleep learning something new, one slow story at a time. With a type of sleeping experience for anybody.
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Disclaimer:
While all stories are based on real events, (for certain types of videos) some details and dialogue have been gently expanded or imagined for storytelling purposes. These additions are meant to maintain a calming pace and help the narrative unfold over a longer period of time. Every effort has been made to remain respectful to the facts, and no major historical events have been altered.
Tonight… we follow a single, quiet
day in the life of Vincent van Gogh. The painter with the sun in his
heart… and a storm in his mind… So get comfortable…
Let your eyes grow heavy… And if you enjoy this calm journey… like and subscribe for more stories that
drift you gently off to sleep… The shutters creaked just slightly… A slow
breath of golden morning filtered in through the cracks… casting narrow beams across
the wooden floor like sunlight slipping through cathedral windows… were in Southern
France… In the quiet town of Saint-Rémy… the world outside was already warming… though
it was still early… too early for most… Inside the small, pale room with
the iron-framed bed… he stirred… Vincent van Gogh did not wake with
an alarm or a rooster’s crow… He woke because the light told him to… Light
was his compass, after all… it was the thing he chased more than fame, more than
money, and on most days… more than sleep… His eyes opened slowly, taking in the
familiar sight… a wooden chair… a simple table… a worn-out jacket draped over
the edge… Nothing fancy… but everything had its place… He wasn’t one for clutter
unless it came in the form of brushstrokes… Vincent sat up slowly… pressing his hand to his
forehead… He often woke like this… not hungover, but… overwhelmed… As though the thoughts
from yesterday had fermented overnight into something thicker, harder to shake… But
he was used to that… He blinked twice, rubbed his eyes, and reached
down for his boots… the same dusty pair he’d painted once… as if
they too had a soul worth preserving… He stood… The floor creaked… The
light shifted… He opened the shutters fully and let the morning flood the
room… Beyond the small courtyard… the trees were still… their branches
painted in soft motion by the wind… No breakfast… not yet… Food came
later… if it came at all… Hunger, to Vincent, was a distant relative…
familiar but rarely invited… Instead, he opened a drawer and pulled out a
folded letter… one he’d already read three times this week… It was from Theo, of course…
His brother… His patron… His lifeline… Vincent read the same line again
slowly… mouthing the words as if Theo were whispering them across the miles… “Whatever happens… I believe in your work…” He folded the letter carefully… almost
reverently… and placed it back where it lived… next to his paints and
a small half-used bar of soap… Today would be a painting day… He could
feel it… Not every day was… Some days, the storm in his mind kept the sun
from coming through… But today the sky was clear… and the light… the
light was begging to be chased… He packed his things into a worn satchel…
a canvas board, tubes of color, brushes, and that ever-present sketchbook… His palette
was already crusted with yesterday’s efforts… but he liked it that way… a record of
all the attempts he didn’t throw away… As he stepped outside, the air wrapped
around him like a soft shawl… Warm, dry, tinged with the scent of earth and
distant lavender… Somewhere a cicada began its song… a long, rattling hum like a violin
string warming up… He nodded as if in reply… Today he would walk out to the
field beyond the asylum’s edge… The wheat had begun to turn that particular gold
he loved… the kind of gold that didn’t glitter, but glowed… The kind of gold you could
only see if you were truly looking… And Vincent was always looking…
Even when he didn’t want to be… As he made his way down the dirt path,
past the old stone wall and the scattered olive trees… he felt a familiar weight…
not in his bag… but in his chest… It was the kind of weight that said, “This
might be the day it all comes together…” Or the kind that said, “This might
be the day it all falls apart…” He smiled… “Either way…” he whispered
to no one… “it’ll make a good painting…” And with that, Vincent van Gogh disappeared
down the road… chasing the light once again… The road was still empty… save for the dust
trailing behind his boots and the soft rhythm of his own breath… The sun had risen a little
higher now… warming the back of his neck as he walked… He passed an old olive tree… gnarled,
tilted, stubborn… and stopped just beside it… Not to paint… Not yet… But to write… There was a low stone wall near the
edge of the field… half-crumbling and covered in sun-stained moss… Vincent
lowered himself onto it slowly… the way someone older than their age might…
Not because his legs were tired… but because his thoughts were heavy… and
the weight needed somewhere to rest… From his satchel… he pulled out a
folded square of paper, a pencil, and a tiny tin of ink… Then he began to write… “My dear Theo…” The rest came slowly at first… like drawing
water from a well with a rusty rope… But once the words began to flow… they flowed honestly…
They always did… Vincent had few people to speak to in real life… Fewer still who listened… But
Theo… Theo always listened… even from Paris… He wrote about the light… About how it looked
this morning… brighter than usual… though not in a cheerful way… More like a lantern being held
up in a dark room, asking… “Are you still there?” He wrote about the trees, too… how their
limbs never stopped moving… even when the world around them did… There was
something reassuring about that… And he wrote… almost reluctantly… about
the dream… The one that had come again last night… of home… of the Netherlands…
of a younger version of himself… before the painting… before the hospitals…
before the walls began closing in… He didn’t dwell on it long… Vincent knew the past
had its place… but he preferred color to memory… Still, the letter wasn’t all heavy… He paused… smiled slightly… and
added a line about his shoes… “I think they’re developing more character than I
am… Perhaps they’ll demand a self-portrait soon…” A joke… Barely a whisper of one… but enough
to pull a faint laugh from his throat… He looked up… The wheat was swaying gently now…
almost rhythmically… as if the field itself were breathing… Above it, a lark sang… high
and spiraling… like a brushstroke in the sky… He closed the letter carefully and
tucked it into the satchel… He’d send it tomorrow… or the day after… Or
whenever he had the francs for postage… Standing again… he stretched his arms back…
hearing the slight crack of a shoulder that had been hunched too long over too many canvases…
His fingers already itched for a brush… And as he stepped forward, something shifted… A quiet confidence began to rise…
not loud or boastful… but steady… This was the moment… The light was right…
The wind had stilled… The field was waiting… And so… like a soldier lifting a banner…
he lifted his easel and moved forward… The day had truly begun… The road narrowed the farther he walked…
until it became less of a road and more of a thought… worn into the earth by
footsteps, not design… Vincent followed it with ease… boots brushing loose stones…
his satchel gently tapping against his hip… The sun now sat comfortably above
the tree line… not yet fierce but no longer shy… It warmed the back of
his hands as they swung loosely at his sides… fingers twitching now and then as if
sketching invisible lines through the air… Around him, the landscape slowly opened up… To
his right: a crooked fence… splintered and bent as though it had once stood straight but had
since rethought the idea… Behind it… almond trees stretched toward the sky in tight… patient
rows… their leaves fluttering like green coins… To his left: an open field…
wild and golden… painted in layers of tall wheat… soft dirt… and sloping
hills… It was the kind of view people often passed without seeing… But Vincent didn’t
pass… He paused… He always paused… There was a breeze now, mild but
mischievous… just strong enough to ruffle his coat and try to steal his hat… He
clutched it with one hand, grinned slightly, and muttered… “Not today…” The breeze,
in response, danced away through the grass… He slowed his pace… allowing
himself the indulgence of detail… Each step revealed something new… the flicker
of a butterfly… pale yellow against the green… a bent stalk of wheat… a cloud that
hadn’t been there five seconds earlier… It was a slow, quiet unfolding… like
watching a canvas… paint itself… And as he walked… he listened… Not for people…
they were wisely elsewhere… But for the rhythm of the land… the rustle of leaves… the creak
of a distant cart wheel… the soft crackle of insects stirring in the heat… It was its own
kind of symphony… Discordant at times… But alive… He passed a low wall covered in lichen
and stopped to run a hand along it… rough, sun-warmed, and steady… A small lizard
darted out and froze… watching him with suspicious eyes… Vincent nodded solemnly,
as if to say… “We all have our reasons…” Further on, the path curved gently…
revealing a patch of sunflowers that had grown wild and unbothered… heads
tilted in every direction like confused philosophers… He stopped again… Not to paint
them… not yet… but to admire their defiance… The world told them to face the sun… and
yet here they were… spinning slowly… some looking down… some looking in…
It made him feel oddly understood… A low whistle escaped his
lips… tuneless but sincere… He walked on… The fields ahead were clearer now… wide, open, and waiting… No houses… No fences… Just
the hum of summer and the occasional caw of a blackbird reminding him that
solitude was never really silent… In the distance, a small rise in
the land offered a better vantage… He climbed it slowly… easing his way up the
slope with careful steps… At the top, he stopped… And there it was… The view… Golden wheat rolling in soft waves… A dirt road
like a ribbon stretched across the horizon… A row of cypress trees reaching upward like
dark brushstrokes on a living canvas… He stood still for a moment…
letting the scene settle… Then, with a quiet satisfaction…
he said to no one in particular… “Yes… here…” And began to set up his easel… The easel settled into the earth
with a soft… satisfying crunch… Vincent tilted it slightly… adjusting
for the slope of the hill… He stepped back once… then again… as if asking
the land itself… “Will this do?” The land, of course, said
nothing… but the breeze calmed, and the light shifted just
so… That was answer enough… From his satchel, he pulled
a canvas… not a fresh one, exactly… A few stray flecks from another
day clung to the corners… like ghosts of unfinished thoughts… He didn’t mind…
Clean was never the goal… Real was… Next came the palette… wide, worn, and
layered with dry rings of paint from days before… He studied it for a moment… then
began squeezing out new color… cobalt blue, chrome yellow, viridian green…
a touch of vermilion… It looked less like a color wheel and more like the
lunch of someone with wildly poor taste… The brushes followed… a motley crew of thin,
thick, soft, stubborn… Each with its own personality… Each with its own complaints…
But they obeyed his hand well enough… And then… he began… He started with the sky… Always the
sky… Not because it was easiest… but because it was honest… It
didn’t hide… It simply was… With swift, sure movements… he laid in
bold strokes of blue… but not just any blue… It was a blue that hummed…
A blue that carried weight… A blue that made you squint… not from
brightness… but from emotion… Then the wheat… He dabbed on yellow in thick, twisting lines…
each stroke alive… each motion full of conviction… There was no sketch beneath… no guiding
lines… no careful grid… Just instinct… He knew the shape of these fields like
he knew the shape of his own shadow… The wind lifted the wheat just slightly…
and he chased it with the brush… echoing the curve… exaggerating the bend…
He didn’t want to capture the wheat itself… He wanted to capture
how it felt to watch it move… A bee hovered nearby for a moment,
inspecting a blob of yellow on his hand… Vincent didn’t flinch… Let
it land… Let it stay… He was, in this moment… not separate
from the field… but part of it… Time folded… Minutes passed… Then maybe hours… The sun climbed,
the shadows shifted… but Vincent stayed locked in… Once… he paused… not out of fatigue, but
reflection… He stepped back, narrowing his eyes… The canvas was still wet… still uncertain…
But it was becoming something… Not a copy of the field… Not a record of it… But… a
version… A truth seen through trembling hands… He leaned in again… adding streaks of orange to the wheat… Not because it was
there… but because it should be… Another gust of wind came, stronger
this time… It pulled at his coat, rattled the easel slightly… He steadied it
with one hand and laughed… low and surprised… “Alright…” he muttered… “you’ve made your point…” He reached for a smaller brush now, one
with a sharp edge… perfect for those last, delicate lines… The details that made
everything else feel intentional… The tip danced across the canvas… leaving
behind thin shadows… darker streaks at the base of the stalks… tiny flicks of movement
that most would never notice… but that, without them, would make the
painting feel strangely still… When he finally stepped back again… the
field was still in front of him… and somehow, also in front of him again… but on the canvas… Different… Messier… Louder… But full of light… He stood there for a moment longer…
hands on his hips… breathing deep… Then he looked up at the real wheat once more…
It hadn’t moved much… It didn’t need to… He nodded once, gently… And began to prepare another canvas… He sat down slowly… easing himself
onto the sun-warmed patch of ground just beside the wheat… The
tall stalks whispered above him… swaying in uneven patterns… like an
orchestra warming up without a conductor… Vincent rested his back against the trunk of
a twisted olive tree… Its bark was cracked and pale… not unlike his hands… and its
shade was generous without being demanding… He exhaled deeply… the kind of breath that didn’t
belong to exhaustion… but to quiet satisfaction… His fingers were streaked with color… Blue
at the knuckles… yellow beneath a fingernail… a stubborn smear of green on his wrist like
a small rebellion that refused to wash off… The brush still dangled from one hand, forgotten… He brought it closer to his face
and sniffed… The smell of oil and turpentine… sharp and medicinal… was softened
by the sun… Mixed with the smell of dry earth and nearby grass… it formed a scent
that could only be described as “a Tuesday in Provence…” Or perhaps “mild
hallucination with floral undertones…” He liked it… He always had… He reached into his satchel again
and pulled out a small hunk of bread… wrapped in wax paper that had once
been white… It was dense, crusty, and unapologetically bland… A bit of cheese
followed… soft, smelling faintly of damp stone and goat… He ate without ceremony,
eyes still drifting across the field… The thing about wheat… he thought…
is that it doesn’t care whether you’re watching… It dances just the same… A beetle clambered across
his boot… He watched it with idle curiosity… lifting the toe slightly
to help it over a fold in the leather… It paused… seemed to consider the gesture…
and then continued on its way… unimpressed… Vincent took another bite… Chewed slowly… He didn’t often stop like this… not
really… There was always another canvas… another angle of light… another
sky demanding to be captured before it changed its mind… But today… something
told him to sit still for a moment… Maybe it was the heat… Maybe
the breeze… Maybe the letter in his bag that still smelled faintly
of the post office and Theo’s hand… He looked up at the sky… that pale,
relentless blue that always made him feel both inspired and small… A
single cloud passed across it… thin and long… like a brushstroke someone had
meant to clean up but left there anyway… He chuckled softly… “Better that way…” he
said aloud… “Imperfection’s more honest…” A butterfly landed on a nearby
stalk of wheat… Yellow wings, barely touching… Vincent
froze, not wanting to spook it… He didn’t sketch it… Didn’t
paint it… Just watched… In a few seconds, it lifted again… as if pushed by some invisible decision… and
vanished into the sea of gold… He brushed crumbs from his coat…
licked a thumb to clean a stubborn dot of ochre from his skin, and stood…
His knees complained, but only slightly… The field remained… So did the easel… The sun was beginning its slow descent… Shadows stretched longer now… like
arms reaching toward home… And Vincent, never quite ready to
be done… picked up a fresh canvas… He wouldn’t try to top the last one… That
wasn’t the point… The point was to begin again… Because that was what the world asked of him…
not perfection, not applause, just… continuation… So he returned to the easel… palette
in hand… brush loaded with light… And started painting again… The brush moved more slowly now, not out
of fatigue, but reflection… Vincent stood before the second canvas… layering thick bands of
ochre and burnt sienna over the base of the hill… The shadows had lengthened… the kind that
made everything look like it had a secret… He was more deliberate this time… Not
cautious… never that… but thoughtful… Painting like someone whispering instead
of shouting… He mixed a pale violet on the edge of his palette and tested it in
the sky… A small stroke, then another… The effect was quiet, but meaningful… like
punctuation at the end of a sentence… Then, from behind… he heard it… The unmistakable sound of laughter… thin, high,
rolling toward him like a tumbleweed of noise… Children… He didn’t turn around… Not
at first… He kept painting, because interruptions… like rain… were
best endured with patience… But the laughter grew louder, bouncing down
the path like it had somewhere to be… A group of five, maybe six… boys and girls,
barefoot, dust-covered, filled with the kind of energy that didn’t care about time or direction…
They rounded the bend behind the olive tree, slowed only slightly when they spotted the
man with the strange red beard and the easel… Vincent kept his brush moving…
but he could feel their eyes on him… That heavy curiosity children carry…
the kind that’s half awe, half mischief… One of them whispered something… Another giggled…
Then came the bold one… There’s always a bold one… He stepped forward, maybe nine years old… and
tilted his head… “Are you painting a monster?” Vincent glanced over and smiled gently…
“Only if the wheat turns on me…” The boy blinked, then grinned…
unsure if it was a joke or a warning… Another girl stepped closer…
“Why’s the sky purple?” Vincent paused, looked up at
the sky… still blue… then back at his canvas… “Because today, it felt like it…” She nodded solemnly, as if
that made perfect sense… The others gathered now, a semi-circle of
sunburned elbows and skinned knees… One of them poked at his paint box… Another mimed the
act of painting in the air with invisible flair… Vincent let them… Let them stare… let them laugh… He knew what he looked like… worn boots, mismatched clothes, paint smudges on his
face, wild eyes full of sky… To them, he was a kind of roadside attraction… something
unusual to fill the afternoon before chores… And yet… he didn’t mind… They weren’t cruel… Just curious… He’d been
called worse by people with better shoes… “Do you sell them?” one of the boys
asked… pointing at the painting… “Not often…” Vincent replied… dabbing his
brush into yellow… “But I still make them…” The boy nodded as if that, too, made sense… The idea of doing something just because you
love it hadn’t yet been trained out of him… Eventually, the group wandered off… Attention
spans spent, giggles fading into the breeze… One waved over his shoulder… Vincent
raised a paint-stained hand in return… And then, the quiet returned… that rich
kind of silence that follows laughter, as though the air itself is catching its breath… Vincent stood still for a moment… watching
the path where they’d disappeared… There had been a time when he’d thought about
having a family of his own… A house, children, a quiet table by a window… But life, in its
own peculiar way, had chosen differently… Still… it was good to hear voices now and then… He turned back to the easel… The light had
shifted again… The sky needed adjusting… He reached for his brush… And the field welcomed him back… The palette was a mess now… smeared,
sticky, layered like a map that no longer made sense… Yellow had bled into
green… blue into red… and somewhere in the middle of it all was a grayish-purple
that had never once appeared in nature… And yet… Vincent had just painted it into the sky… He stepped back from the
easel and tilted his head… The field was still the same… golden and
waving… The sun had moved slightly… but the color of the world hadn’t shifted
nearly as much as it had on his canvas… His sky was now violet… His shadows were
teal… The earth had streaks of orange… and the wheat, instead of glowing
like usual, almost seemed to burn… He knew it wasn’t right…. Not technically… A
schoolteacher would have failed him… A gallery would’ve turned him away… A critic would have
written something clever and condescending… But he didn’t care… Vincent had never painted what
he saw… He painted what he felt… and sometimes what he wished was there instead… The colors came to him that way… not from
observation… but from somewhere stranger… He’d once written to Theo… “Instead of trying to render
exactly what I see before me… I make more arbitrary use of color
to express myself more forcefully…” Arbitrary… Forceful… Personal… The truth was, he saw the
world differently… Always had… Blue, to Vincent, was not just the color of
the sky… it was distance… Silence… Thought… Yellow wasn’t just wheat… it was
longing, warmth… loneliness with a smile… Red could be anger, yes… but also
hope… Hope that had learned to be loud… He dipped his brush into a blob of
pale green… Not because he saw green in front of him… he didn’t… but
because the painting needed it… It wasn’t about recreating the field… He had
the field right there if he wanted to look at it… No, it was about creating something
better… Something truer than the truth… He smiled a little at the irony of it…
He’d spent so many years trying to make people see the world the way he did… and
here he was, making it up as he went… His fingers flew again, faster
now… The painting had turned into a dialogue… He’d lay down a stroke…
the canvas would argue… he’d answer back with another… Back and forth until
they found a rhythm, a compromise… Another line here… A swirl there… Then
a sudden splash of white… right in the middle of a shadow… He didn’t think
about it… It simply belonged there… He took a step back and wiped his
brush on the side of his coat… The canvas looked… strange… Unfamiliar…
But not in a bad way… More like a dream you half-remember… where nothing quite
fits… but everything feels correct… He sighed, then muttered quietly to
himself… “Well… at least it’s honest…” Behind him, the field rustled in gentle agreement… He wasn’t trying to impress anyone… That ambition had long since dried
up and flaked off like old paint… No, what he wanted… what he always
wanted… was for the colors to make someone feel something… Even if
they didn’t understand what it was… Especially then… He reached down and pulled another ragged scrap
of cloth from his bag… something to clean his fingers, though it would never actually succeed…
The blue had already sunk deep into his skin… The sun was starting to slide westward
now… The shadows of the cypress trees stretched out like long fingers across the grass… He’d need to head back soon… But not yet… Not while the colors still had more to say… He placed the brush down gently… not because it was delicate… but because his
hands had begun to tremble… It was a small… familiar shake… the kind
that came after too much sun… too little food… and an afternoon spent negotiating
with colors that refused to behave… The kind of shake that whispered,
“That’s enough for now…” Vincent stepped away from the easel, wiping
his hands on the same square of cloth that was… at this point… more pigment than fabric…
He reached for his hat… which had blown slightly askew… and tipped it back over his forehead… The
sweat had begun to dry at his temples… leaving behind that tight, salty feeling that reminded
him that he was still a body in the world… He walked a few steps toward the cluster of olive trees behind the hill and settled himself on
the ground beneath their slanting branches… The shade was thin, patchy, but enough… He leaned back against the tree,
closed his eyes for a moment, and let the weight of his body sink into the
earth… His boots stretched out before him… dust-caked and cracked… looking every
bit like they had stories of their own… Above him, the leaves rustled softly…
not in chorus… but in scattered little conversations… The wind had returned… cooler
now… brushing over his face like a damp cloth… He didn’t sleep… Not exactly…
But his breathing slowed… and his thoughts drifted… not away, but deeper… He thought of nothing in particular and everything all at once…
The smell of linseed oil… The sound of a crow’s wings cutting the air…
The curve of Theo’s handwriting… The girl he’d once loved who now lived
only in memory and half-finished portraits… For a few minutes, time didn’t move… Or rather,
it moved so gently that it didn’t make a sound… And in that moment, beneath that tree, Vincent
felt something dangerously close to peace… It didn’t last, of course… Peace, for him, was always a
temporary tenant… never one to settle in or unpack its bags… But
its visit, however brief, was welcome… He opened his eyes again… The light had changed… Warmer now… Angled… Golden in a way that only
appeared once per day, and never for long… He sat up slowly, stretching his arms until
his shoulders popped like stubborn hinges… He pulled his satchel closer and rummaged inside
for the last corner of bread… It was dry, crumbling, and tasted faintly
of canvas… but it was enough… As he chewed, he watched a tiny ant struggle
with a crumb twice its size… dragging it across the dirt with a kind of stubborn
optimism he couldn’t help but admire… When he finished eating, he wiped his fingers
on the grass and stood again… The trees behind him whispered a quiet goodbye… Or perhaps they
said nothing at all… trees had that sort of face… He walked slowly back toward the easel… His
body ached in places that didn’t always announce themselves until he moved… His right wrist,
his lower back, the tender edge of his spine… But the pain didn’t matter…
What mattered was the light… It was perfect now… that brief window before
evening, where every shadow is longer, every color richer, and the sky
begins to pretend it’s already dusk… He stepped back to the canvas… And picked up the brush again… The light had shifted again… Not just in tone, but in character… It had grown dramatic… low
and angled, casting long, theatrical shadows across the field like the sun had decided
to direct a final act before curtain call… Vincent knew this light well… He counted on
it… Chased it… Sometimes even mourned it… He reached into his bag for a fresh
canvas… smaller than the last… square rather than rectangular… A different shape meant a different feeling… He liked that…
Constraints made creativity louder… The first painting, still perched on its easel, was done… Or at least, it had decided it
wouldn’t change anymore… Vincent never quite knew when a painting was finished…
Usually, it just stopped arguing with him… He propped the second canvas onto the spare
easel he always carried… The legs wobbled slightly… one of them shorter than the others… so
he tucked a flat stone beneath it… Good enough… He dipped the brush into his
yellow again… This yellow was different now… Not a mid-day yellow…
sharp, confident, almost noisy… No, this was evening yellow… Quieter…
Warmer… It didn’t shout… It hummed… He began with the trees this time… The
cypresses in the distance stood upright like brushstrokes placed by another
painter… He outlined them roughly, letting the shapes melt into the background…
He didn’t want detail… he wanted presence… The wheat field was next, but this time, instead
of layering heavy gold, he added streaks of lavender and rose along the tops… The light was
playing tricks, and he was eager to join the game… He worked quickly, almost feverishly, like he was afraid the sun would change
its mind mid-stroke… And it often did… Brush after brush, layer after
layer… thick lines, sudden curves, tiny dabs of pale green for the scattered
weeds… There was no sketch, no roadmap, only instinct… He tilted his head every
few minutes, stepping back, frowning, smiling, muttering to himself like someone
translating a language only he could hear… At one point, the wind caught a loose
paper from his satchel and carried it into the wheat… He let it go… Whatever
it was could wait… The light could not… The second canvas began to glow… Not literally, of course… But the way the colors sat beside
each other… yellow brushing into blue, a line of deep crimson peeking through at the base… made
it feel like the painting had a heat of its own… A dragonfly zipped past his face… He
flinched, blinked, then laughed softly… “You’re late,” he muttered… “Everyone
else has already had their moment…” He dipped into his final color… a deep, dusky
violet… and began adding it along the base of the field… It wasn’t there in reality,
not exactly, but it grounded everything… It gave the scene weight… A kind of quiet
anchor for all the light to dance around… And then… just like that…
the light began to fade… It didn’t leave all at once… It simply softened, like a candle burning low,
flickering at the edges… Vincent stepped back one last time, hands on his
hips, face warm from both effort and air… The second painting stared back at him… It wasn’t
perfect… It wasn’t polite… But it was alive… That was enough… He let his arms drop and sighed… Far off, a church bell rang once… The
sound rolled gently through the hills, scattering birds from the trees and
settling like dust over the field… He looked up… The sky was turning… And it was time to go… The canvas was still damp when he slipped
it into his satchel, carefully separating it from the first with a scrap of linen that had
once been a pillowcase… It didn’t matter… Everything in his bag had paint on it already…
brushes, letters, bread crumbs, his fingers… He folded the easel, slung it over his shoulder,
and looked once more across the field… The wheat had dimmed with the sky, no longer golden but a
dull bronze that leaned into grey… The wind had slowed too, as if it understood the performance
was over and the audience had gone home… The road back to town began at the
base of the hill… He took it slowly, letting gravity carry him, his boots brushing
loose stones into the ditch as he descended… The air had cooled… Not cold…
not yet… but with that faint, shifting edge that said night
was thinking about arriving… Behind him, the olive trees swayed gently, their leaves catching what little light
remained… Ahead, the rooftops of Saint-Rémy peeked above the horizon like
tired heads resting against the land… He walked in silence… Not the heavy kind of silence, thick
with thoughts and old ghosts… but the lighter sort… The silence that
follows a long day of work well done… His arms ached… His lower back throbbed…
His left heel, always the troublemaker, had begun its usual evening complaint…
But he didn’t mind… The pain was familiar, almost welcome… It reminded him
he was still here… Still moving… As he passed the stone wall with the moss…
the one he’d rested against that morning… he paused, only briefly… The spot
was empty now… The ants were gone, the lizard too… But the stone
was still warm… Still waiting… He considered sitting again… But no… the day was slipping… And there
were still things to do… He reached into his coat pocket and pulled
out the letter he’d written earlier… Folded neatly, the ink only slightly
smudged at the edges… He would mail it in the morning… Or maybe not…
Sometimes he kept letters to reread them, the way some people reread poetry… as
proof that the thoughts had happened… A lantern flickered on in the window of
a nearby farmhouse… Then another… The path narrowed as he reached the outskirts
of the village… The smell of baking bread drifted from somewhere… someone preparing
dinner, or perhaps a late delivery to the bakery… His stomach reminded him of
its existence with a quiet growl… He patted it gently… “You’ll survive…” The streets were nearly empty… A cat darted
across a doorway… A shutter creaked in the breeze… From somewhere behind a
wall came the quiet clatter of dishes, and a woman’s voice humming a
song too soft to recognize… Vincent passed each detail like a traveler, absorbing but never interrupting… The town
wasn’t his stage… The countryside was… Here, he was just a visitor… A man with paint
on his sleeves and silence in his pockets… He turned down the last lane, the
one that led toward the hospital… Its garden walls rose ahead of him,
trimmed with ivy and shadow… Inside, the air would be cooler… The corridors
would smell faintly of soap and old stone… He adjusted the strap of his bag and crossed the
final stretch of road… The sky behind him had turned the color of plum… The first
stars blinked uncertainly into view… And as he reached the gate, he didn’t look back… He didn’t need to… The day had already followed him home… The door to his room opened with a soft
wooden groan, familiar as breath… The hinges always complained
a little… not enough to fix, but just enough to notice… Vincent stepped
inside and let it close behind him, the quiet latch clicking like the final punctuation mark
at the end of a long, wordless sentence… The room was unchanged… A narrow bed
with a wool blanket, a wooden chair, a chipped basin with a pitcher beside it… On
the wall above the chair hung a coat hook, shaped like a hand… possibly meant to be charming,
though it leaned more toward unsettling… He dropped the satchel by
the chair… Not carelessly, but with practiced weight… As
if the bag, too, was tired… He removed his coat, shook the dust from the hem,
and hung it carefully on the hand-shaped hook, which offered no opinion on the matter… Then he
rolled up his sleeves and moved to the basin… The pitcher was only half full, the water slightly
warm from the day’s heat… He poured it into the basin and dipped his hands in… The moment
the water touched his skin, the colors began to bloom again… tiny rivers of blue, green, and
yellow swirling like smoke across the surface… He scrubbed gently, fingertips tracing familiar
patterns across his knuckles… No matter how he tried, the paint never fully came off… It
lingered in the lines of his palms, beneath his nails, along the creases of his wrists…
A quiet proof of labor, impossible to hide… He reached for the cloth
beside the basin… stiff, slightly sour-smelling… and patted his hands
dry… Then, reluctantly, he looked up… The mirror above the basin was small, a
square of glass framed in uneven wood… It had a faint crack in one corner
that spidered across the surface, like a reminder that clarity
always came with a price… And there he was… The man in the glass… Red beard, slightly askew… Brows that leaned
together in concentration even when at rest… Eyes… tired… Curious… And something else
behind them. Something less easily named… He leaned closer, studying himself the
way he might study a canvas still in progress… Not critically… Just curiously… A small laugh escaped his throat… Not
bitter… Not amused… Just… there… He tapped the edge of the mirror
lightly, as if to say, “Still here?” The man in the mirror did not reply… Vincent reached for the towel again, drying the
last drops from his fingertips… He stepped away from the mirror and turned toward the chair… On
the seat sat a pile of old letters… some opened, some barely held together by folds and time…
Theo’s handwriting covered all of them… He picked one at random and unfolded it… “Take care of yourself, Vincent…
Your paintings are improving, I can feel it in your words… Remember, even
the hardest days are still worth painting…” He read it twice… Then once more… He placed it gently back in the pile and
sat down… The wood creaked beneath him… Everything in this room creaked…
walls, floor, joints, thoughts… He rested his elbows on
his knees, hands clasped… The window across from him was open
just enough to let in the sound of night birds… One called, another
answered… Then silence again… He looked around the room… the plain walls, the uneven floorboards, the single
candle flickering beside the bed… No art hung here… No color…
That lived elsewhere… And still… it was enough… Vincent stood again, stretched his arms until his
back popped, and moved toward the narrow bed… He didn’t lie down yet… The night was still long,
and his thoughts had a few more things to say… But for now, the paint had been washed away… And the mirror had been kind… The candle flame wavered slightly as he settled at the small wooden desk… It wasn’t
really a desk… more of a table, repurposed and permanently scratched by time and
use… But it held paper, and that was enough… Vincent pulled the candle a little closer,
its glow softening the edges of the room… Shadows danced along the walls, bending and
reaching like they, too, had things to say… He unfolded a clean sheet
of paper… Not truly white, of course… nothing he owned was
truly white… It was off-colored, slightly curled at the corners, and smelled
faintly of tobacco and turpentine… He dipped his pen in the inkwell and paused… Sometimes, the first sentence was the
hardest… Not because he didn’t know what to say… he always knew what to
say to Theo… but because the act of beginning felt like opening a door to something
heavier than he was always ready to carry… Still, the door always opened… “My dear Theo,” he wrote, the words
curling like vines across the page… He paused again, then exhaled through his nose…
the kind of breath that brushes away hesitation… “The light today was unbearable… not
in cruelty, but in beauty… It made everything seem as though it were waiting to be
remembered… The fields were gold again… Not the kind of gold people want in rings or coins,
but the kind that burns gently, like memory…” He leaned back slightly, listening to
the scratch of the ink drying… It was a comforting sound… like soft
footsteps in a quiet hallway… He continued… “I painted twice. Both under the same sky, but
somehow they feel like different worlds… One is bold and full of heat… The other is soft,
almost questioning… Perhaps they’re both me…” He smiled at that, a quiet, crooked smile… “Some children passed by… They asked
me why the sky was purple… I told them because it felt like it… They didn’t argue…” Another pause… A few ink splatters dotted the
lower corner of the page… He ignored them… “Sometimes I think I am still trying
to explain myself to a world that has already decided not to listen… But
you listen, Theo… You always have…” His hand slowed slightly now… He blinked
hard… The candle flickered again… just once… “I don’t know what will come of all
this… The paintings… The colors that don’t exist… The days that
end like this… with my hands sore and my mind quieter than it has any right to
be… But I am grateful… Not for success, not for peace — but for the chance to chase
something beautiful, even if I never catch it…” He set the pen down… Not because he had nothing left to
say… he always had more to say… but because the letter, like the canvas
earlier, had stopped arguing with him… He reread it once… Didn’t change a word… Folding the paper neatly, he slid it into
an envelope, sealed it with a smudge of wax, and placed it with the others on the table… Tomorrow, perhaps, he would walk
it into town… Or perhaps not… Sometimes writing the words was enough…
Sending them was just a bonus… He sat back and listened to the quiet…
The night air had grown heavier, fuller… Crickets sang beyond the
window… The candle burned lower, casting a soft pool of light
that barely reached the floor… And in the hush of that moment,
Theo’s voice… not in sound, but in memory… filled the
room like a second flame… Steady… Familiar… Warm… Vincent closed his eyes for
a moment and let it stay… The candle had burned low
now… Its flicker had softened, growing small and humble… like
a flame aware of its own end… Vincent stood from the desk slowly,
his knees tight from stillness… He stretched with a soft grunt, hands
brushing the beams above as he rose, his body a little slower than
it had been that morning… He looked around the room… There wasn’t much to see…
But Vincent saw it anyway… In the corner sat the yellow chair… Not just a
yellow chair… the yellow chair… Thick legs, rough seat, slightly uneven backrest…
The one he had painted months ago, when his mind was sharp but
his heart was unraveling… It was just wood, really… Just a place
to sit. But to Vincent, it was a witness… It had seen the letters… The
silence… The small meals… The nights when the wind came through the
shutters and whispered too loudly… He stepped toward it and ran a hand over
its back… The paint had begun to chip… his paint… It made him smile…
“Even my furniture peels like I do…” Next to the chair sat a pair of old shoes, the laces permanently knotted with paint and
stubbornness… He hadn’t worn them in weeks, but he liked knowing they were there… Proof of
motion… Of miles walked and fields crossed… On the windowsill: a small jar… Once it
held turpentine… Now, a few wildflowers leaned lazily to one side, picked on a
better day, half-dried and sun-bleached… He stared at them for a long while… They weren’t fresh… Weren’t pretty… But they held something still… the
memory of being chosen… He moved to the bed and sat down on its
edge… The mattress was thin… The pillow thinner… But the blanket… heavy
and woolen… had its own quiet comfort… He bent forward, unlaced his boots with tired
hands, and pulled them off one at a time… They landed with a dull thud against the wall…
He let them lie there… They had done enough… He turned slightly and looked back
across the room… From this low angle, everything felt different… The
chair looked taller… The flowers seemed more defiant… Even the shadows
on the wall held shape and posture… He liked that… He liked that things changed
depending on how you looked at them… He pulled the blanket over his legs, letting
it settle like spilled paint across the bed… Outside, the sounds had softened… no voices, no carts, no birds… Just the occasional
hush of wind sliding past the window frame… He reached toward the candle and pinched
the flame out with practiced fingers… The room darkened immediately, but
not completely… The moonlight had arrived through the window… thin,
pale, and gently uninterested… Lying back, he let his head
rest against the pillow… The ceiling beams crossed above him, like
the frame of a painting not yet filled in… He closed his eyes, then opened them again,
watching as the shadows shifted and settled… He thought of the yellow chair once more… of how
something so simple could hold so much presence… It didn’t speak… It didn’t move… But it was… And sometimes, being something…
being here… was enough… He exhaled slowly… The kind of
breath that signals to the room: “I’m not asleep yet… but I’m close…” And somewhere, beyond the quiet, the
stars waited patiently for him to drift… The room had settled into stillness… Not
silence exactly… the kind of stillness that breathes… Boards creaked faintly
beneath the weight of old dreams… Outside, the wind brushed past the shutters
like a long-forgotten visitor… Vincent lay on his back, eyes
half-open, not quite ready for sleep… His body was still… But
his mind, like always, wandered… And tonight… it wandered north… Back to the Netherlands… Back to Zundert… He hadn’t thought of home in a while… Or
perhaps he had, but only in flashes… a gray sky, a pair of muddy boots, the
sound of church bells through fog… Now, the memories returned with shape… He remembered the brick house with the
sloped roof and the garden out back, where he and his siblings
would chase one another between rows of vegetables and wildflowers that
never quite knew where they belonged… He remembered his father’s study… lined with
books, always smelling faintly of paper, smoke, and something Vincent never could
place… Responsibility, perhaps… The winters came back most clearly…
The long ones… The kind that turned the ground to stone and left the windows
frosted like lace… He could still feel the cold on his knuckles, the way
it clung to his sleeves and found its way down the collar of his coat no
matter how tightly it was wrapped… But there was beauty in it too… The stillness of a snow-covered street… The quiet of a frozen canal… The glow
of candlelight reflected in ice… Back then, he didn’t paint… Not like now… He
drew, sometimes… faces in the margins of books, small sketches in the church hymnal… but
the idea of color hadn’t seized him yet… He was a quieter boy than most… Not shy exactly,
but serious… Often mistaken for difficult, when really, he was just listening to
things other people didn’t notice… The curve of a bare tree… The way light pooled
in a puddle… The sorrow in someone’s smile… He remembered a girl from the village…
Anna… Or was it Annet? It didn’t matter… He remembered the warmth of her hands, how her laughter surprised him… and
how, later, her absence did not… People came and went… That was always true… But the land stayed… The dark fields… The stone walls… The cloudy
skies that never really cleared… He’d painted them, later… Not as they were… but
as they felt: heavy, honest, aching… He’d once said that painting the peasants
of the north had taught him everything he needed to know about humanity… not just
how people looked, but how they endured… He saw that same endurance in himself
now, though he rarely admitted it… As he lay there in the dark, Vincent thought of his younger self…
cold fingers, dirt-smudged cheeks, eyes too serious for his age… and wondered if
that boy would recognize the man he’d become… He hoped so… Even if the world didn’t… He turned slightly, pulling the blanket up around
his shoulders… The mattress sighed beneath him, and the breeze outside picked up
again… soft, almost like snow… The memories faded slowly, like breath on glass… But a part of him remained there, in that northern landscape, beneath a gray
sky and a silence that had never left him… And as his eyes closed again, he carried
that silence with him… gently… into sleep… The room had grown too still… Even
the shadows had stopped moving… Vincent opened his eyes slowly, blinking once at
the ceiling… The stars had shifted outside… He could feel it, the way a person feels
when a clock ticks past a quiet hour… He rose, quietly, swinging his legs over
the side of the bed… The floor was cold beneath his bare feet… a brief shock that
reminded him he was still very much alive… No need for boots… Just the coat… He
pulled it on, leaving it unbuttoned… The weight of it was comforting… like
a curtain between him and the world… He stepped out into the hallway, careful not
to disturb the stillness… The hospital at night was a different place… The
walls no longer echoed with voices or footsteps… Just the occasional
sigh of old wood and distant wind… He made his way down the corridor toward the
rear door… the one that led to the garden… It wasn’t locked… They
trusted him now… Mostly… The door opened with a quiet
scrape, and he stepped outside… The night greeted him not with
darkness, but with silver… The moon was full and low, casting pale
light across the gravel path and turning the garden into something
half-dream, half-memory… The rows of herbs and flowers, dull and tangled
by day, glowed now with unexpected grace… Lavender brushed against the
air, its scent soft and calming, like an old lullaby… Somewhere nearby, a moth
fluttered, looping quietly through the shadows… Vincent walked slowly, his boots left behind, the gravel pressing gently into
his soles… He didn’t mind… He passed the row of rosemary,
then thyme, and bent slightly to run his hand across the tops of the tall
lavender stalks… The leaves were cool, their scent waking something inside him…
not excitement, not sadness… just presence… He looked up… The stars were
scattered unevenly across the sky, like a handful of paint flung at a black canvas… Some brighter than others… Some
faint, blinking, undecided… He wondered if anyone else was looking at them… In another letter… perhaps one
never sent… he had written: “When I feel a terrible need of…
shall I say the word… religion, then I go out and paint the stars…” He smiled now, thinking of it… Not because it
was clever, but because it still felt true… He reached the bench beneath the fig tree
and sat down slowly… The tree’s branches swayed slightly above him, catching the
breeze in their soft, leathery leaves… The garden was not large…
But tonight, it felt endless… He closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling
deeply… Earth… Stone… Lavender… The scent of a world still spinning,
even when no one was watching… He wasn’t painting now… No
canvas… No brush… And yet, in this moment, he felt as
much an artist as ever… Because he was noticing… And noticing, he’d always believed,
was the first act of creation… He stayed there for a long while, not
thinking much… Just… letting things be… The plants…
The wind… The stars…
Himself… No explanations needed… Eventually, the breeze grew cooler…
The fig tree creaked softly, as if whispering that it was time to return… He stood slowly, brushing dust from his coat, and walked the path back with quiet
steps… The door clicked shut behind him… But in his mind, the garden remained…
silver, silent, and gently swaying… The door eased shut behind him with a soft click, sealing the garden away
like a page being turned… Vincent made his way back down the quiet
corridor, past the unmoving shadows, back into the small room that still smelled
faintly of paint and candle smoke… He didn’t light the candle again… There
was no need… The moon had followed him… Its pale glow poured through the open window
and landed softly on the wooden floor, pooling near the bed like spilled cream… He slipped out of his coat and let it fall across
the chair… Then he lowered himself onto the bed, slower this time, careful not to disturb the
hush that had settled back over everything… The blanket gathered around
him like an old friend, and he turned his face toward the window… The stars were still there… They had rearranged themselves
slightly… the constellations tilted, the brightest ones holding their ground
while the dimmer ones danced around them… Vincent stared at them, not with wonder exactly,
but with a kind of deep, mutual understanding… The stars had always spoken to him… Not in
words… But in color… In shape… In feeling… There was a time he tried to paint them
literally… tiny dots on a navy canvas, crisp and obedient… But it never felt right… Stars, he realized, weren’t still…
They pulsed… They moved… They sang… That was the night he painted The Starry Night… Not from what he saw out the window… no, the view had been much plainer… But
from what he felt might be behind it… The whirling heavens… The trembling sky… The
church spire rooted like a prayer in the dark… He watched the sky now, his
eyes tracking the faintest motion… a flicker here, a shimmer there… He imagined the stars talking among themselves…
Not in arguments, but in gentle murmurs… Perhaps one was asking, “Is he still awake?”
and another replying, “He always is…” The moon had risen higher, its light
clearer now, brushing across his face in pale lines… He closed his eyes
for a moment, then opened them again… Still there… Still burning… He remembered writing once… “I often think that the night is more alive
and more richly colored than the day…” It had confused people… As most of his words
did… But it made perfect sense to him… Daylight was loud… Crowded…
It demanded attention… But night? Night whispered… Night listened… And in the silence, he could
finally hear himself… He thought of the people who looked up at these
same stars and saw only dots of light… cold, distant, scientific… That wasn’t
wrong… It just wasn’t enough… To Vincent, stars were proof that something in the universe chose beauty even
when no one asked it to… A generous kind of madness… Much like painting… He shifted beneath the blanket, pulling it
up over his chest… His fingers brushed the edge of the sheet… still a little stiff from
being washed too many times in hard water… Outside, the wind rustled again… A soft,
circling sigh through the branches… He yawned, quietly, the sound
barely lifting into the room… The stars didn’t blink… They just kept being… And Vincent, tired but not
lonely, kept watching… Until his eyes began to blur… And the stars became brushstrokes…
And the brushstrokes became sleep… The stars had faded from view… not because
they’d left, but because his eyes had… Vincent lay still beneath the
blanket, his breathing even now, his body fully surrendered to the bed…
But his mind, as always, had other ideas… Rest came slowly to him… It always had… Even as a child, sleep wasn’t a switch to be
flipped… it was a negotiation… A series of slow retreats from the thoughts that
refused to leave without one more word, one more image, one more flicker
of light behind the eyes… Tonight was no different… Somewhere in his chest, a restlessness
stirred… not sharp or anxious, but persistent… Like a question that couldn’t quite
be remembered, but also couldn’t be ignored… The field from earlier returned to him… Not the actual one, but its painted version…
And not even that… but the feeling of it… The golden waves… The sky turning violet… The heat of color pressed into
the canvas like a heartbeat… He could still feel the brush
in his hand, even though it lay hours behind him… Still smell the oil…
Still hear the wind rustling through the stalks, and the faint laughter of
the children passing by… And now, in the drifting edges of
half-sleep, those things mingled freely… The cypress trees bent sideways and began
to glow blue… The lizard that had climbed over his boot now stood upright, calmly reciting
one of Theo’s letters… The sky cracked open, and from it poured not rain, but
paint… thick, swirling, iridescent… He didn’t try to stop it… This was where ideas lived… not on the canvas, not in the daylight, but here, in the
quiet storm of his subconscious… A new image bloomed in the dark behind his eyes… A house, yellow and crooked… A
window open… A bed, unmade… A night sky that moved like water…
A path lined with stars, and no people at all… His breathing shifted slightly, deeper
now, but his mind… still moved… Always one more color… One more line…
One more possibility… He had once told Theo… “I put my heart and soul into my work,
and I have lost my mind in the process…” At the time, it had sounded dramatic…
Maybe even a little performative… But now, lying there in the dark, it
felt simpler than that… He hadn’t lost his mind… He had given it away… piece by piece…
to each canvas, each field, each star… And what remained…
Was enough… A flicker passed through his chest… not
fear, not joy… just the quiet ache of stillness… The knowledge that morning
would come, and he would rise again, and the light would beg to be painted, and
he would follow it like he always did… Even if no one noticed…
Even if no one remembered… Because beauty, to Vincent, had
never been about applause… It had been about service… The humble act of witnessing the world… and
giving it back, one impossible color at a time… His body stilled further… The dream deepened… The images softened… The brush fell from his mind’s hand… And for a moment… just a moment…
His mind, at last, rested… Sleep had taken him fully now,
but even in sleep, he painted… Not with brushes… Not with oils
or canvas or careful composition… But with instinct… With memory… With dreams… In the vast quiet behind his eyelids, a world
unfolded… not the one he had walked through that day, but one stitched together
from fragments of light and feeling… The sky above him pulsed… not blue, not black, but a color that lived between
them… Indigo, perhaps, though softer… Warmer… As if the night itself
had exhaled and forgotten to take it back… A star drifted down toward him…
Not fell… drifted… It landed gently in the palm of his hand like a
coin, warm and glowing… and without thinking… he raised it like a brush
and began to paint across the dark… Each stroke left behind a trail of color that
shimmered, then settled into place… trees, fields, a moon that moved
like it had somewhere to be… He painted without direction, without
judgment… The image revealed itself as he moved, the way a melody sometimes
writes itself while you’re humming… The house appeared again… his
house in Arles, yellow and tilting, light pouring from the windows like it was trying
to escape… The chair sat in its usual place, slightly askew, waiting for someone
to sit and say nothing important… The door was open… Beyond it… a field of sunflowers… But they didn’t face the sun…
There was no sun… Only stars… And yet, the flowers turned upward anyway, drawn not by heat or gravity… but by something
quieter… wonder, maybe… Or habit… Vincent stepped forward… The ground beneath
him wasn’t ground at all, but paint… thick, wet, and alive… Each step left behind
a print that shimmered, then faded… He didn’t speak… There was no need…
Everything here already knew him… He reached the field’s edge and looked out… The
stars above had begun to move again, not quickly, but with purpose… slow spirals, faint echoes,
as though rearranging themselves just for him… One dipped lower… Then another…
They hovered at the horizon, then brushed themselves into the sky
like strokes of white on velvet… He smiled… Not the weary smile
of waking life… but the open, soft smile of someone who is,
at last, allowed to just be… No critics…
No failures… No aching hands or cold beds… Just him… And light… And the act of making something from nothing… The stars whispered again, but not in
voices… In color… In movement… They told him to keep going… Not for
fame… Not for gold frames or galleries… But for the simple joy of
turning silence into shape… And so, in the deepest part of sleep,
Vincent van Gogh painted one more canvas… Unseen… Untitled…
Unfinished…
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