April rain is the saddest of times at the heart of this old, empty planet. Emptied, it seems to grow older in its current enthrallment, flashing back in the winter months in caskets and shrivels in the skin. The folds at the core of an ageing tree, the melanchloia that clings to the tattered ends of a dragonfly's wings, the drizzled streets, the empty chairs in the amphitheatre sets sail in the robust times of gunshots and vengeance. How old are we, eh - with all our brown suits and ash hair, livid at the spectators for the burden of performance that sets us soaringly caged, day after day?
Vincent, how long did they torment you? How far did they tear down your idea of time, procurement, vicinity, error and elongation? Vincent, what is love - what did you cling to, in that dirty old overcoat of yours, your unbathed body, the essence of ashes and galaxies far away, the enchanting tale of centuries and millennia at the expense of a hand, a genuine urge to succumb to your own terror, did love hurt...or were you setting sail, preparing to transcend from this dimension to
the aural delight of awakening? How heavy was it, how suffocating, how claustrophobic, how tender, Vincent? How long does it take for a creature like us, to rise?
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