BAD HOMBURG

We go to the thermes. At night we stay in the warm water. The sky is black but full of stars. The Steam smokes and causes a dense fog. There are some lights in the pool. You hug my waist with your legs while we kiss. The entire scene is made of dark colours broken by sudden shiny reflexes. It's almost a mystical experience mixing love, water and lights...

(The picture is the very bad and unexpressive draft that I made on Friday at the airport.)

We visit the Städel museum. We do not stop at every paint, but we do in some of them, commenting together. We do so in front of a portrait depicting the well-known muse of the prerraphaelist painters, Elizabeth Seddal. There, you tell me the story of how the painting was done, with water warmed by candles, except the day that the painter was so concentrated that he forgot and she got sick. We both agree on how beautiful this paint is, and the use of plants and water (there was also a nice painting of narcissus as an androgynous man before named as Saint Catherine). All these paints have something in common with our scene of the therme.

While we were walking in the so-call forest, I mention that the love you show for nature is like if you wished to be naked in it and make love with the earth. You say that you actually want. We walk on the field, out of the way and in a moment you start taking out your clothes until getting totally naked (as you used to do as a teenager over a tree, in the night) and you lie on the floor, over the plants. The moment is mystic and the image of you so magic is a kind of Ophelia without water