Blood On The Keyboards

My fingertips are bleeding on the keyboard. "Damned dry climate, " I mutter to myself, making sure that my grammar is correct even when swearing.
I'm losing a little bit of my grasp on reality these days. In a moment of cognitive dissonance I see myself actually talking with Vincent. Yes, that's right. The famous Vincent van Gogh who never knew his own fame would be so great-never knew that his oil paintings would sell in the tens of millions of dollars at auction.
"Hello," he says in a gruff, heavily accented English. His voice is guttural, as the Dutch language is known to be. The timber of his voice is deep, making him seem far older than he is.
"Good afternoon, Vincent. Cold today, eh?" Says I, shifting on the iron bench.
"Ja! Cold, damned cold. I don't take well to the cold. (coughs) My health prefers the warm, like in the south; in Arles."
"Well, I can't imagine being dead helps that much!" I quip.
We chuckle at the dark joke. We share this black humor, being men of the world and not easily impressed by sentiment. Our breath hangs in the Parisian air.
"At least the cold air is cleaner than the summer air, what?" I offer, trying to be comfortable talking to the legendary artist. It requires some concentration of effort to not let my mind race ahead. I have so much that I would like to ask this tragic man.
Stay posted, dear reader. I will continue to hold forth with VVG in due time.