That does not keep me from having a terrible need of — shall I say the word — religion.
Then I go out at night to paint the stars. — Vincent Van Gogh in a letter to his
The town does not existexcept where one black-haired tree slipsup like a drowned woman into the hot sky.
The town is silent.
The night boils with eleven stars.
Oh starry night!
This is howI want to die.
It moves.
They are all alive.
Even the moon bulges in its orange ironsto push children, like a god, from its eye.
The old unseen serpent swallows up the stars.
Oh starry starry night!
This is howI want to die:into that rushing beast of the night,sucked up by that great dragon, to splitfrom my life with no flag,no belly,no cry.
