We invited Nietzsche and Kafka and Dickinson and Van Gogh to a meeting of all the people who died without knowing the huge cultural significance their lives and works would have.
Nietzsche couldn’t figure out why he’d been invited.
Kafka was pissed off.
Dickinson snickered. She understood why she’d been invited
but was confused as to why the meeting was happening.
Van Gogh alone was gratified.
