Visiting Van Gogh. Why is it like driving a train that keeps moving
when you pull the brake, faster and faster? Why won’t it stop? Where
will it end? And when you wake up, in a spartan room, in a new town, by
the railway station, friendless, why is the light so bright? What is the
drink that takes away pain and doesn’t leave a hangover? Why are you
condemned to this ludicrous transit of railway stations: May, June,
July, August? Will the perspective of several fields give perspective?
Which colour, crossed with dark red, turns a shape into sunset?
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