Does such a thing as ‘the fatal flaw,’ that showy dark crack running
down the middle of a life, exist outside literature? I used to think it
didn’t. Now I think it does. And I think that mine is this: a morbid
longing for the picturesque at all costs.
My grimoire/BoS/altered book/art journal/smashbook/collage scrapbook-ish project. Base book was a university library discard.
Alphabet stamps and a Krylon gold paint pen are my friends - the first, because my handwriting is shitty, and the second, because I can’t draw worth a damn but no one notices when everything is gold and shiny!!!
Made a very long index (to be filled in as I go, bullet journal-style) because this book is hella thick.