Wednesday, February 16, 2011


I wish I could write this night sky, she thought, swirling her feet in the hot tub. I'd want to write it like Wayne Thiebaud would paint it, though: with orange underneath, and purple peeking through, and a milky white glaze I'd wipe thin with a hole-ridden rag. No sense in taking a picture; it would read black. It's bright as day beneath this hazy dome; the backdrop to the trees is the glow of a nuclear citrus. Plum, charcoal, cantaloupe and cream make strata beneath inky trees. It's delicious.

Images found here, here, here, here, here, here.