She sits up in the rear bed of the van in the soft light of a rainy morning, stretches with hands to head of luxurious curly hair, raising her full, large breasts. She looks out the back window. Yawning, notices her breasts, absently feels them, weighs them in her palms. The Happy Man decides not to tell her how very beautiful she is--a classic moment the great framing of time and death touch the heart up to this acute esthetic cognition, within the frame of his true love. That she intersects with a passing classic image a moment in the life theatre, in the Life Gallery of living art, before the great world backstage of (The Happy) Man, literate man, compositional Man--what is that to her? That image may have drifted in from the river, or a book that I read. I love her unconscious, says a line in his weaving. I love this beautiful unconscious, that is Nature nested in the mysteries of his esthetic and his love, and the esthetic, that in degree the Happy Man, Adam as it were in this age in degree, perhaps in great degree "followed," as it is suggestive--it guided him out--to his themes of "orchestrated polyphrenia" (The Will to Power), the subtle body--out to the river in the peculiar luminousity of grey morning, and to the swift ideas of bubbles where raindrops touch moving water, all down the river's many personalities--and he wished he could be as it were Kenneth Grahame or somebody, who could levitate down that ventilated corridor, explore, explain the nooks and bays of the river, and the vitality of the bubbles, to... to... well, to contemplate, I guess. To reach the shining satisfaction. Who knows, until one follows that "esthetic" instinct to where it "ripens into truth."