Der Kuss, Gustav Klimt, 1907/8.


Two noble beasts born among the stars and fed on the milk of queens, the lovers hovered over a dazzling countryside, drinking glasses of rosy springtime beneath the sky’s sunny dome and sinking further and further into one another.


Lively little candles, brilliant and warm and poetic, illuminated their room as they stood with half opened clothes baring gilded, impeccable bodies. Devoted to pleasure, come rain, come thunder, come deluged dams washed away, their thirst would remain unquenchable.


Their passion shot through the streets, ricocheting off windows and walls, landing in mixing bowls and cups and saucers. Nine months later the village’s population had nearly doubled.


Out of this raw material they formed with infinite delicacy a thick cloud of darkness in which to sleep.

This entry is part of my journal, published January 21, 2013, in New York.