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11:07 a.m. - Friday, Oct. 10, 2003
Going All Literary on Your Ass

It was all over for her. The sheet was stretched and the bed narrow. She had gone up into the tower alone and left them blackberrying in the sun. The door had shut, and there among the dust of fallen plaster and the litter of birdsí nests how distant the view had looked, and the sounds came thin and chill . . .
Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway

Add that to the bell jar, for my collection of depression imagery. Add that to "Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow creep in this petty pace . . ."

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