the painting

Let's talk about those words that I read yesterday. Not a single doubt, no one ever spoke in such a way. 180 years is what it took to find you and to hear you say that life is death and lies are true, no one does paradoxes quite like you, your words are the only I will listen to. I can't hear you or see your face, but that doesn't diminish what we made, or does it? Let me speak about the pages that means so much to me, the only thing that never changes is your constant irony. There's a strange feeling health captive by your writing, the dark and strange desires will no longer be hiding. Your stories of beauty, pain and sin intrigued me like no other, something about the way you've been made it hard to see others. You've made it clear that you don't believe in changing for the better and when I read your letters I saw things I won't forget. Pessimistic, possibly. Melodramatic, most definitely. 'But what is life without art?', I heard you scream.