A tan or pale woman sleeping nude.

Sunlight in the eyes of my dog.

A city at night reflected in a short, strong glass of whiskey and coke.

A page or screen being filled with words.

A book almost read.

A book yet to be written.

Words that will remain.

Beauty is not a fashion or a place

It's not a Society manufactured term

Society isn't to blame,

It just has impossible standards of "beauty"

Beauty is the ability to love

something despite its flaws

Love is beautiful

Beauty is love

You ever stop and really look?

When it's one in the morning but your dog really wants a walk,

And the sky is purple-blue-gray

And the clouds kiss the wind

And the stalks reach up to wrap 'round the rain

That breathlessness? That's beauty.

Standing twelve inches from an original Bosch. Lost in the textures, brushstrokes applied by ancient technique so long ago. Absorbed in the fact that this exquisite man's fingers poured hours of imagination onto this very canvas asian tourists nonchalantly glance at, strolling by, while my eyes fill with tears.