A struggling artist starts a business writing suicides notes.
This is it. People wonder about Van Gogh. Did he do it? Whatever his end, it has nothing to do with his painting. Nothing to do with color, light, shape. Okay, there's madness in it, in the work, but really I've found more beauty in painting than in a sunset. People say I followed Rothko everywhere. No, I chased the same feeling he did. He caught it, many times, on canvas, and I didn't. That's the difference. In some ways I inherited this end from my father. I'm glad I lived to hear someone call him a genius. My mother never thought so. It's funny to think of them, gone so long, at this hour. All my life I worried about what I'd leave behind. I tried to make things that would survive me. Well, if I learned anything in this late hour, it is the nonsense of this idea. This is my decision. My way to retain some dignity. When other people hate you, it's not important. When your body hates you, you have to listen. Thank you.
I don't blame anyone for it, it wasn't your fault.