It was the light that told Vincent, the one which always told him the truth reflected his soul’s desire, the glistenings of his mind, that this mass of gnarled roots would be his last vision.
He could feel the gun smoke creeping into his soul, corrupting his thoughts, the very rays of his world, even his beloved hog hair brushes and pigments
as he walked the Rue Daubigny pass the Church at Auvers he needed to canvas in June when the flint of its history, death, faith, passion and beauty impelled him to create,
pass the wheat field absent of crows which made the world seem more beautiful with its darkness hovering over the light of July, diminished now to ordinary light, smoke, haze and fog.
He felt his world constricted to a blue room with a blue bed, a blue chair wedged in a corner draped in blue shadows which could not be mixed to the perfect colors.
When he saw the gnarled roots exposed in late afternoon July beams he knew that he would not live to see the first dawn of August, that this would be his last perfect beautiful, silent spot.
He painted smelling the gun smoke coming, the smoke turning into a bullet as he passionately tried to capture life itself frantically and fervently rooting itself, as it were, in the earth and yet being half torn up by the storm.