What do you do to a painting after you’ve ladled the gold on like a rococo wet dream?
Oh boy, now I’m stuck.
For better, for worse, I think it’s best to leave this journal, while I still can. I could go on trying to improve it for another day, but am afraid I’ll overdo it, and make things worse. More important than knowing how to do something is knowing when to stop. Capitulate.
And sure, I’m calling this journal Lagooned in Gold…why not? Yesterday’s poem ended up influencing how I treated the background, so it may as well christen the book, too. Go ahead, blame everything on Edith Wharton, she can take it.
Sun’s going down. I’m going on deck to see if I can confuse landing aircraft with my journal cover…
- Sunday, lagooned in gold (smallestforest.net)