— After Vincent van Gogh Starry Night, 1889
He got up again sometime after three a.m. The cot the hospital provided was lumpy and buggy, and his back hurt. Vincent straightened and stretched, and fired up his pipe of tobacco, one of his rare luxuries he was afforded here at the Maison de Santé du Saint-Remy de Provence. The Asylum at St. Remy. His room was on the second floor and down the hall from the screamer who yelled all night, but the poor soul could still be heard. He hoped the thugs would leave him alone.
He was on his fifth month, and while no one could ever truly feel at home in a place like this, he was glad to be here. He didn’t trust himself after the dust up with Cezanne, and he appreciated the routine. Someday he’d make up for it.
Van Gogh knocked the ashes out of his pipe and got a glass of red. One of the attendants paused at his door to listen for signs of distress, then moved on toward the screamer. Once you got used to it, the routines here were a comfort.
Out his window he could see the moon and stars in the cold mountain air. Sometimes he would dream that they would spin and swirl, and the blue shadows of mountains and Cyprus and Olive trees would dance. He glanced over to his easel and palette. A fresh canvas was already set up.
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