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?