July 1, 2013
Slowly welling from the point of her gold nib, pale blue ink dissolved the full stop; for there her pen stuck; her eyes fixed, and tears slowly filled them. The entire bay quivered, the lighthouse wobbled; and she had the illusion that the mast of Mr. Conner’s little yacht was bending like a wax candle in the sun.
– Virginia Woolf, from Jacob’s Room