Let Art touch you with her soft hands.

" Some people go to priests; others to poetry; I to my friends, I to my own heart, I to seek among phrases and fragments something unbroken _ I to whom there is not beauty enough in moon or tree; to whom the touch of one person with another is all, yet who cannot grasp even that, who am so imperfect, so weak, so unspeakably lonely. 

There I sat. "

The Waves, Virginia Woolf, 1931.