Vincent, Vincent. Why do you force me to do this?
My hands are tired, the colors don't match.
The shape isn't right and the texture's all wrong.
Vincent, Vincent. I don't understand. I'm too tired to paint, too tired to stand.
My brain is tired, my body too.
Every movement like swimming in syrup.
Vincent, Vincent. Allow me a break.
They force me to work, when I just need to sleep.
My failure shows like a sore on a thumb.
Vincent, Vincent. I can't go on.
Even my poems don't rhyme.
Vincent, Vincent. I'm leaving now.
I cannot do right.
I keep fucking up.
Vincent, Vincent. This is my goodbye.
I'm not ready for death.
I just want a reprise.
