Sleep sounds good right about now.  The eyes are tired and blurry, the hand no longer steady as a good idea tries to manifest itself on paper.  But there is a chasm to cross, how do you draw raindrops on one rose, those raindrops reflecting the roses surrounding these droplets?  The ability for now escapes me, as  the pencil is unsure of how this sketch can be completed.  The image is shown perfectly behind closed eyes, but refuses to reveal itself on paper, that last step from imagination to reality not quite in my grasp.  And so it goes, life imitating art imitating life.  For behind those same closed eyes, another image appears.  Her face shimmers into being, and is manifested as the notes of her voice tease the brain.  That smile, once elicited, lightens all and brings forth the wish to be able to perpetuate that smile, that laugh, to ensure that no frown ever again crosses this face I hold in my minds eyes.  Nothing should trouble such a face as this, a woman such as this.  She is to be cared for and protected, loved and allowed to blossom, much like the bloom I am still trying to produce on this sheet of paper.  And it leads me to wonder if the sun knows about the beauty it's light can bring about, the splendor caused as it's rays hit the blossoms, how it can brighten them and bring forth yet more beauty, simply by being.  Because it would be a tragedy if the sun were unaware of the power it holds.  And this makes you hope that very soon you can have the same effect on another.  That the sound of your voice can cause a smile, that your presence brings joy, that you lightest touch can cause them to lean into you because they long to be near you.  To know undeniably that you are needed, loved, and missed.  And so your mind's eye plays that face back again, showing the sweep of her hair and the dance of the light in her eyes, showing her face as a look of content sweeps across.  Making you want to find a way, some way, to be her reason for contentment, to be one of her joys, then that last and hardest step from imagination to reality would be realized. Surprise, the rose is finished, and the pencil lays still.  Yes, sleep would be nice right now.  It's a lovely rose, I think, some might even call it pretty.  But the real masterpiece is still waiting, for that would mean you have become the cause of her joy, love, and content.  Sleep would be heavenly right now, if it came wrapped in her arms, listening to her breathe as a slight smile is displayed on her dreaming face.  Then you could get away with calling it a masterpiece.