In a Dusty Room

In a dusty room, fingers of sunlight splayed over the floor. There was a ladderback chair in the room where something-like-a-man was sitting. He was naked and his skin seemed colorless and dusty. He seemed very poised, his hands rested on his knees. He gave no indication that he intended to rise when I entered. The odd thing was that his head was giant and misshapen, like a great potato resting on the slender stalk of his neck. I couldn't make out many of his features, but his eyes, which were wide set apart, appeared to gaze ahead in a steady, focused manner. There was no pain, no suffering, no reproach, and no shame in his eyes. Occasionally he would blink. He was communicating something to me in a fashion I had never before experienced. I looked around the room and found a corn broom. I began to sweep. Though nothing changed outwardly, I felt my activity was somehow pleasing and placating the man in some important way I couldn't fathom. I don't know if I can ever stop, now.

Van Gogh Peasant Woman Sweeping.