Take this as an advisory note;
wake one morning, make no plans, gather only a pen and pad, walk outside, follow the crowds until you come to the first cafe you can find. Order yourself a Latte, or an Ice Coffee, or a Mocha Cappuccino whatever your fix of caffeine may be. Forfeit the inside seating and find yourself a nice comfortable table outside, pull out that pen and pad, allow your eyes to fix and adapt to the passing crowd and after a day's time, you'll see how sharpened yours senses become, how much more, or how much rather less, this human existence makes more, whilst simultaneously, makes less sense all the while.
Van Gogh, in all his terrible aloneness, sought nothing more beyond that moment where you are sitting. His mind riddled with an almost debilitating shyness, tertiary Syphilis and a cataclysmic mind feeding on itself as a cannibal, brush to canvas, view inside of eye, words only filtering within the conflict and confines of mind, the renown 20th century painter came of age truly when his shadow had become and would be the last company to truly know how the simple act of painting a Cafe Terrace, a place where the people who were always estranged to him gathered for small talk, the goings on about the town, speaking too, of the latest artist to drift into town, and the last one claimed by yesterday.
Dontrell Lovet't
from, [To Whom All Humanity is Dreaming]
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