She looked like, if you bit her, milk and honey would flow from her.

The nature of anguish is translated into different forms.

If you're a painter, you're not alone. There's no way to be alone.

The final test of a painting, theirs, mine, any other, is: does the painter's emotions come across?

I love the sound of a woman in the throes of rapture - but not screamers.

It's not that I couldn't love you more
I loved you in a way I thought you deserved
You thought you deserved more
I just didn't see It