Vincent's Yellow

a[n] [auto]biography and a love story.

Saint Paul, at Saint Remy

I went to the asylum today, where you stayed for a year. I sat in the space of the reaper, between your bedroom window and the asylum wall. My name means reaper, I am the reaper of your harvest.

I saw the low mountains with my own eyes, the Alpilles, and they really are shaped so strangely.

There were acres and acres of olive groves, and cypresses some hundred feet tall. Your hand has shaped that place for me.

I stood in your bedroom, and looked out your window. I felt your cool breeze, and heard your silent calm. I wrote for you, just as I dreamt for you last night.

The day was exquisite.

Wed, August 26 2009 » Personal, Travel

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