I have the images of forests and men and seas burnt into my eyelids to look at when I’m going to bed. Everyone makes fun of me for reading books with pretty pictures, for enjoying standing in front of a portrait for thirty minutes or so, for stealing touches of the smooth Roman sculptures they have in the Cantor Center to try and understand how they smoothed the marble to look softer that my own skin. It’s wonderful.
Just looking at things. That’s all.
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