Today I find myself absorbed in a line a man made on paper over a hundred years ago.  He, too, smoked too much when he smoked, drank too much when he drank, and ate potatoes.  He, too, walked in the fields. One especially dark night, lonely in his painted room, impoverished, passionate beyond reason, he cut off his ear.  A love letter.  Not so long after he walked a shotgun into the field and opened his heart.  The air poured out, the coin poured in.  Coins all gold but not so gold as his painted field.  As his starred night sky.