I screamed at myself, at my useless, ridiculous and empty posturing and my art. What possible virtue is there in painting, and most especially in painting inner vistas of futurity and madness, when madness is the common currency of everyone around? If I wanted to confound society in this place, I should colour my walls with the rich greens of fertile land and the evening sun. I should draw myself a window on a pastoral landscape. I should remember the faces of the dying when they were in repose. On that wall I could paint the Emperor’s Cuckoo, now hanging on a gibbet outside the palace. I met him only the one time, to talk to, but he had a pleasant singing voice and a fondness for mild Belgian beer. He lived alone in a little apartment in the new city, and counted a myna bird his closest friend. I forget his name. I read, recently, that he never existed at all and it was scandalous to suggest he did. Well, he existed then, at least enough to die.