. . . What shall I say? Do our inner thoughts ever show outwardly? There may be a great fire in our soul, yet no one ever comes to warm himself at it, and the passers-by see only a wisp of smoke coming through the chimney, and go along their way . . .
After Van Gogh
Primitive, Pencil on Index Card, 2009
Even at this distance / how we are alone / together / is / certain / to define us.
April 2, 2020
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Categories: Drawings, New Poems & Pieces, Primitive
Tags: Art, Diaries, Journals, Primitive, Reading, Theo, Van Gogh
