...Vincent feels like going to L'home

There is a knocking on the door.
"Entrée"
As the door open
"VINCENT"
He dropped his tube of paint he held in his hand, snatched his cane.
"When did you arrive? How long are you staying? Come and sit on the couch and let me look at you !
How do you feel?
     While he spoke his eyes flashed their messages to his brain. Yes it was Vincent...
"Yes I was supposed I did" Vincent starred at his knotty hands".
"It almost killed me though, but perhaps it was worth it"
"even in the asylum, can you imagine Henri?"
"Stop talking about it, you all right now."
"But I want to talk about it."
Vincent persists gently " Perhaps if I do. I'll stop thinking about it. It wasn't the seclusion that hard on me.
It was the proximity of most men. We do need physical distancing.. Some of them awoke at night and you could hear them cried aloud even after the guards had dragged them away. At the time I felt I was going crazy. Something inside him seemed to have unlocked the floodgates of his speech. In a torrent of words. He told Henri about his life in Arles. the hours spent in the fields under the boiling sun, painting with a frenzy that grew into a sort of madness. And the staggering walk back to town at sunset over a dusty country road. His easel strapped on his shoulder and yield to his back, the canvas in his hand still wet

.; ‎But, my dear brother — you know, I feel I’m in Japan. I say no more than that, and again, I’ve seen nothing yet in its usual splendour.. That’s why (even while being worried that at the moment expenses are steep and the paintings of no value), that’s why I don’t despair of success in this enterprise of going on a long journey in the south. Here I’m seeing new things, I’m learning, and being treated with a bit of gentleness, my body isn’t refusing me its services. For many reasons I’d like to be able to create a pied-à-terre which, when people were exhausted, could be used to provide a rest in the country for poor Paris cab-horses like yourself and several of our friends, the poor Impressionists.Vincent Van Gogh quoted as saying, he told Henri about his life in Arles    .  she told Henri about 

l'homme

‎This lovely pot is in excellent condition with no damage or restoration. The silver marks are clear and easy to read (the date letter on the body of the pot is visible but rubbed however the date letter is very clear on the lid) . This pot has been tested for water retention and doesn’t leak. The handle is secure and fine to use.

...Rue Mouffetard, France.

Coutesy of Mulin Rouge by Pieere La Mure:
Marie such a pretty name. They sat down at the marble toped table, and Henri gave his order to a starched, weirdo waiter at rue Muffetard. That’s where Marie was born. Her father was a bottler in one of the rum warehouses, and naturally a drunk. Her mother used to do the street when she was young, but now she has a license as a push cart vendor. Marie older’s sister, Rose, ran away from home when she was sixteen and went to live in the Sabastopol district, Marie jopined her there two years later. As I recall I was stationed there, and that’s how I happen to remember her. “You can’t help noticing her with that mop of yellow hair and those slanting eyes. But she’s order eggs and apple pie."