One last push.

Today I spent at schoolwork. I expect tomorrow will be the same, and the day after. Yesterday, though, at the museum, I wondered if we observe the stone when we see the statue. Despite the magnificence of the chisel, the tiny notches and the years of patience, the stone resists. Pygmalion was only a story. If David were a man instead of marble I would love him more than I do myself, but he just an indentation, a darling piece of masonry cast out of thin air.