text: Vincent stretched and climbed out of bed. He made his way to the corner of the room and gingerly stepped out of the frame of the picture, carefully gasping the sides, and lowering his body to the floor below. The hallway of the museum was semi-dark, but Vincent could make out the details of each of his works that hung on the walls. He had no way of knowing that his evening wanderings were within the confines of the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam, nor that it was the largest collection of his art in the world. All he knew was that during the nighttime hours, he could emerge from his yellow bedroom in Arles and explore some of his favorite familiar haunts, from the south of France to Paris to the Belgium of his youth. Loneliness was a familiar companion, but he had his work and certain friends he could visit on his nocturnal wanderings. Depending on his intended visit, Vincent would don his favorite straw hat, or when he planned a visit to Madame Agostina Segatori at the Cafe de Tambourin from his Parisian days, he carefully placed his gray felt hat at a jaunty angle. Vincent could still step into his studio and dabble with his brushes and canvases, but for some reason there was never any completed work anymore. He could still seek out his brother Theo, with whom he bore such a striking resemblance, and converse about the art market for his works as if time had stood still. He occasionally dropped in to see his friend Paul Gauguin, with whom he had shared an apartment in Arles before their falling out. He recalled this as if it were yesterday and was puzzled that he could reenter Paul’s presence by stepping into the frame of his portrait, and still engage in heated artistic arguments. Van Gogh spent his youth in Belgium, and he still admired his work of the common man and the honest labors of the field workers. Tonight, he entered the world of his Potato Eaters. The family had the simplest of means and sat as always huddled around their meagre meal of potatoes that they had just cleaned and cooked. Despite their frugal bounty, they met Vincent’s entry with a cautiously welcoming gaze and a seat at their table. “Will you join us, sir?” He would defer their offer of food but welcomed their simple company and to learn of their days’ activities and honest day’s work. He would return to the Yellow House, stepping into the street in front and exchanging pleasantries with the neighbors he would pass by enroute to his house. “Greetings Vincent!”, offered the local postman. “I’ve left you a post from your brother”. “Thank you Monsieur Roulin, I bid you a pleasant good night!” Vincent had to follow the same sequence each night to arrive home, first entering his street scene with his home in Arles, then crossing down the hallway to the portrait of his room. Entering his private domain, he could sink into his bed and let sleep overtake him. Today he planned to visit Madame Segatori at the Cafe. He shared a special connection with her in his Parisian days, and her colorful presence brought him enjoyment whenever he stepped into the cafe’s picture. There she always sat with her red hat, buttoned blouse with long skirt, and pitcher of beer. She h ad helped him mount an exhibition of his Japanese prints in the cafe. “Good evening, Vincent.” “A pleasure to see you Agostina. How has business been today?” “Ah as well as I could hope my friend. For a rainy Friday.” Vincent could not see outside and had no concept of the weather, the day of the week, or even the year. He had grown accustomed to these mysteries, accepting his current existence despite its confines. He had his memories and could revisit where he chose. Perhaps it would be a walk along the Seine, a stroll through the olive orchard and a visit to a neighboring farmhouse, sending his greetings to the workers of the field sewing hay, or shearing sheep. At night he would sift through the piles of French novels he had collected, picking one up at random to enter a different world, an escape from his own. His provisions were scarce, limited to his own artistic creations. He could enter his still lifes of apples or grapes and have his fill of the fruit that always seemed fresh, and the bowl curiously was never depleted each time his pangs of hunger prompted his evening visit. He returned to his room, buoyed by his visit to Madame Segatori. The next night Vincent explored further down the darkened corridors, and hesitated as he saw the entrance to the asylum at San Remy. He recalled his time here and stepped inside feeling immediate regret. There was the one-eyed man who was a fellow inmate there, casting suspicious glances in his direction. Vincent left through the entry vestibule and went into the garden. His time in nature always lifted his spirits, admiring its bounty, whether in the beauty of a pink peach tree or the sunflowers or irises he loved to paint. The only exception was when he walked through the wheatfields and scared up the crows, who frightened him, making him feel a sense of foreboding, providing somehow a reminder of his own mortality. Sometimes he was still startled of late when he saw his bandaged ear in his looking glass and recalled he had cut it off after a furious row with Paul. This morning Vincent awakened not in his room in Arles in his familiar bed, but with a view of the Garden of the asylum at San Remy. He froze, not remembering how he had arrived here, as he did not like the restrictions here though he had been able to do some of his most creative work in these surroundings. Vincent looked for the exit but found none. He imagined the worst. He searched for the square picture frame that would provide his escape to another aspect of his life but found only an inky black void. “Theo, are you there?” No response. Vincent sat alone in his thoughts, contemplating his own mortality. Oh, but for one more glass of absinthe with the company of Madame Segatori. Instead, Vincent heard the distant cawing of the crows in the wheatfield and reached for the revolver he had carefully hidden amidst his belongings. He took hard his sense of dwindling creativity in his painting. Tomorrow he would venture out into the fields with his easel, looking for inspiration in the quiet of the field and the swaying wheat. But tonight, he stared into the darkness, his fingers gripping the pistol tightly.