As Meeko and I balance on the branch that points to the ringing bells of the church like the accusing finger of a witch, Hachikō continues to snap at the fly buzzing about his nose. The claws on his little paws dig into the bark of the branch, with his tail brushing the green leaves that serenade us the same way the sunflowers serenaded Van Gogh as he once wept in a fit of despair begging for the forgiveness of his God. I don’t know this for a fact, and yet something in the air tells me this indeed happened, and many times, at that. God was in every one of his paintings—in every brushstroke. His mystical, omnipotent presence as present as the overwhelming air of melancholy that reaches out from each lonesome canvas he ever poured his heart and soul into. I’ve seen a few of them in real life, in London galleries from a time in my university days when I was in search of proof that I wasn’t the only one of my kind. The paintings of his I stumbled across made me feel sad. Like I was reading a beautiful suicide note from someone who had tried to be their best in a world that couldn’t care less. Reminiscing as I do, the smell of fried chicken billowing out of the restaurants below makes way for the aroma of scorched engine oil, and then the sweet, giddy highs of marzipan. Almost losing my footing, my eyes linger on the rolling horizon of rooftops and leafy trees the same as this one, and for a second, the strings I’m comprised of feel connected to the strings of everything and everyone else. From Meeko to Hachikō to the remains of Van Gogh as he rolls in his grave someplace in Auvers-sur-Oise. It’s a sad and beautiful thing. To think that even when I’m gone, I’ll still be here, at one with the universe and all the small miracles that exist in between the devil and the deep blue sea.