Basically, he calls me up one day on whatever the hell worked for some kind of a phone way back when artist’s seemed to cut their ears off to feel more pain, in order to… I dunno, feel less of it in the end?! But, of course, this was before The End – when he was painting pretty damn near perfect paintings, paintings only his close dear brother – the balanced one – knew would be worth a fortune one day. So, anyhow, Vincent rants on and On about trying to get to a perfectly imperfect place… wherein his life can absolutely marvel at as well as imitate his art – tit-for-tat. “How about not thinking nor trying so hard, Vincent?” I asked him. He didn’t know what I was getting at, and, to be perfectly honest, either did I, perhaps. He told me that he was painting three pure raw paintings per day, mainly “bouncing” from landscape to a certain beautiful and worldly flower and right back over again. A flower that he wasn’t really ever willing to give me the actual name to. Silly man, would’ve been nice to know in advance.. before, well, you know. All of that famously posthumous fame took bloom. We chatted like a pair of squawking artists in our own right. My writing was taking something from his words all along, even if he didn’t see it, nor me either for that very matter. “Brain – or Poet Art – whichever you prefer. Well, how about when I manage to make a fair fortune we can meet in the middle – in some deserted place somewhere… somewhere far quieter and maybe get to create together? Perfect and decidedly procrastinating creation. That’s the kind they love, right?” By ‘they’, I had no fucking feeling who he was aiming his art at. But what I definitely did bloody know was that this guy was the real, real deal; the sort of artist, bred with fear and all of the infamous prerequisites necessary to be a phenomenon in his own time. “Me too!” thought I. That I had this in me too to steer my particular literary ship just such a way with time. “Time though… Brian! Do we have enough.. or too much!!” Yes, he was addled, and before I knew it the line went haywire, and all I could hear was a slice of what must have been a blade, a gushing of delirious blood, and then… DEAD!! Oh, Vincent you fucking moron.. you had it all to lose and you LOST IT ALL. If I could call you right now, you’d see just how phenomenal you’ve become. Ahead of your time, dear-boy! Hear me… cos I’m only half way there.