Clouds pass, thin or thick, with some disturbance of the colour of the grass beneath. The sundial registers the hour in its usual cryptic way. One's mind begins tossing up a question or two, idly, vainly, about this same life. Life, it sings, or croons rather, like a kettle on a hob, Life, life, what art thou? Light or darkness, the baize apron of the under footman or the shadow of the starling on the grass?...
Having ask them all and grown no wiser, but only older and colder... back we must go and say straight out to the reader who waits a-tiptoe to hear what life is - alas, we don't know...
Virginia Woolf, Orlando
Foto por: Yael
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