I could see it in his eyes that he was prepared to die.
He fumbled, disassembled, rambled all for naught. He did intend to die.
He begged, cried, shouting that he wanted one more try to capture nature on his canvas then he would die.
I wanted to ease his unease so I agreed to take him one more time into the fields of wheat, where you saw the circling crows urging you, the Step into Death.
You painted with a singular intensity thick strokes, showing us a Forlorn landscape.
You shot yourself soon thereafter, a thief who ripped your talent from us Forever,
