I was five when I found my father’s lifeless body sprawled across the floor of his study. I didn’t understand that he was dead. I was just a child.
How I loved, and how we loved, but alas, fires unfed grow cold and die. Would that I’d a diamond for each tear I’ve cried, or time I caught another’s eye.
Van Gogh was a poet with a paintbrush, working by the light of inspiration’s flickering candle, and beset by the shadows of self doubt.
My job was hardly a love affair. I wasn’t a rat in a maze of identical cubicles, but then neither was I an artist. Instead, I destroyed what I loved most.