“they call us mad, dear Vincent”, Ludwig said to his friend.

“even as you sketch starry nights on the blank canvas of this torrid life”.

“yes, my dear Ludwig, they call you insane too, even as you pluck odes to joy from the depths of deafness”.

“they call us mad”, whispers Vincent. 

“mad, indeed”.

“I would rather be mad, than numb”, breathes Ludwig. 

“I too would rather be mad than what they expect us to become”, Vincent sighs as the two men share a smile.

“mad, yet never mere shades of ice”.