[music: tori amos - from the choirgirl hotel]

oooh, she's good. So how do you make her raspberry swirl?

And yes, I do have a singing snowman, if you must ask.

It's a gray foggy morning, and these mornings tend to
make my mind drift and skip across those ponds of separate thoughts. A memory comes to me of the delightful chills I experienced in Paris, wandering the halls of the Louvre and the D'Orsay. I had taken art history in college and studied the pictures in book, but here were the masters of my trade, almost standing behind my shoulder, and watching my reaction. Perhaps a tiny grin would appear as my eyes
opened wider and my nostrils flared, and my mouth dropped open. I'm an artist and I've studied art, but Paris was the first time that I *really* got it. I've always loved Renoir and Monet, but never knew why. Here the paintings moved and breathed, and I could here voices. I was in a private heaven, and my blood singed with inspiration and delight.
And there was the fulfillment that only understanding can bring.

There was one room where I walked in and slowly panned from my vantage-point, and when I finally looked behind
me, I discovered Whistler's Mother. I'm sure I gasped then giggled.

The Louvre was closing and my love asked if there was anything else I would like to see. I rapidly scanned the artist list, desperately trying to figure out if I missed any of the masters. An "Oh shit!" leaped from me, and my love asked "What?" "Rembrandt!" was my reply as I leapt up and hurried to his room. People were streaming for the exits and my heart beat with anxiety. How could I forget him? I made my way through the rooms, as the guards were ushering patrons out. I arrived to the entrance to his room, and the guards held up their hands, "Sorry, it's closing time." I paused for second before walking past them. They kept asking me to leave, and my only reply was "after Rembrandt." They nodded and
gave me a moment to take in his works. Finally, I sighed and quietly headed to the exit, sporting a satisfied smile.