I fall in love, I fall out of love, stumbling around in the dark of love like a blind man looking for his hands. But what is really happening here, that I nod in and out like a dreamer, half-awake? The beauty of the sunrise has always been there. I needn't proclaim it, or sustain it. It manifestly is. This, because a work of art has enduring quality, if its connection to beauty be true. So also, perhaps love can be a work of art. With sufficient care, and devoted pain, one day its nature is self-revealing: No need to tell my friend, "I love you;" the fact of living is all the proof we need.