Pictures of you

Life is at its closest to art when I awake inside this quiet lover's tangle, and ponder the open face of the next two hours at least. Here, right there beside me, is the wondrously touchable outcome of all the bumbling messes in the daily toss and fro. These mornings, that follow the fizzy bright yesternights of shiny eyes and exaggerated gestures, they are the meaty heart of the art of things, the times to believe that all of life could be naked, true and never boring. The rises and falls of a pretty young face, the thud, thud, thud of artery thick with life I hardly know, a whole streaming system of mystery. There is no picture in all of Europe more lovely to contemplate. They could be Gods of anything.