Sun muted by gold fabric. Hardwood. A chair by the window. Either the hated wicker of my childhood or wood and green velvet. A small nondiscript table set next to it. On it lays a book or 2 and a potted orchid. Yellow. A pair of cream coloured kid leather gloves with tiny seed pearls to bind them.
The peacock and ostridge feather fan that was given to me by a young woman whom was always in the midst of a scandle and a glass of lemonade. Long and wet with sweat. As thin as frost. So thin you must mind you don't pierce your lip. The base is heavy and it's edges rounded from years of use. It sits in the palm like an egg.
the album of the sun is the new Glass Candy it seems everyone has it on their page
VIEW 27 of 27 COMMENTS
wordrumstrings:
This prose is the raw ore of poetry.
hadjischlomo:
That is so cool -- it almost looks like a funked out Maira Kalman illustration, from one of her books or a New Yorker cover.