Vincent's shoes. My shoes.

Vincent's eyes weren't always busy chanelling the heavens into the tip of his brush. Paolo had an art print of this painting by Van Gogh, I remember, on his wardrobe in Ples... Someone once said, somewhere, don't remember where, that these shoes are powerful not so much in their presence as in the void between the leather; the absense of the feet that filled them, the self that filed the body of which the feet are a part; The soul and personhood that once filled these worn-out shoes.
What about mine, my shoes?

I've been packing (and dying, inwardly withering in the process) as I discarded item after item of belongings which present circumstances did not allow me to keep. Among these were 2 pairs of shoes, shoes which I had once filled, shoes which have kissed the soil of many a country, witnessed many a warm embrace, monumental a moment. I took of picture of Elliot's shoes.
The Timberlands that walked with me miles and miles alongsidea dear friend along Provencal highways and riverside paths, the Rockports which once scraped the earthy, calcium-rich soil of Italy. I looked at these 2 pairs of shoes with an unspeakable nostalgia, I finally shed them away.

Off to Cologne tomorrow, fa-la-la-la-la-ing...