I read once about a woman whose secret fantasy was to have an affair with an artist.

Tilting her neck to the side, her eyes followed the movements of a boy covered in paint and dirtied by charcoal. She wondered who he thought about as his brush hit the canvas and even more when the canvas hit the trash. Writing, she thought, is much the same. And she wondered why things that people were so passionate about couldn't come out more naturally. Words, she thought, aren't my problem. It's the presentation of such. And much the same, love is more easily felt than conveyed when we're left to our own devices and time to think.

Outside, a bird ran in to a powerline. It's song had never been so lovely than at the last of chords, and she had never been more sure of home than when she'd stepped outside to see an artist, disappointed in his own creation (heart.)