It feels Victorian, right about now. There's no light, I am under a thick, beige quilt, and there's a stout candle on the night-table. A steady flame burns and a sturdy wick lets it. In this pool of mellowness, I start reading Donna Tart's Goldfinch. I just started and a little into the book, there is description of an art exhibition. It's vivid, soft, and lovely...that paragraph melting into the story like watercolour itself.
Some nights become muses for dawns that may or may not turn out to be artists.
Comments
It seems you put in lot of effort in trying to be casually poetic.