Still I gape, like a young bird, unsatisfied, for something that has escaped me. I cannot keep myself together. I am like a log slipping smoothly over some waterfall.
Like a little warm coal in my heart burns your saying that you miss me. I miss you oh so much. How much, you’ll never believe or know. At every moment of the day. It is painful but also rather pleasant, if you know what I mean. I mean, that it is good to have so keen and persistent a feeling about somebody. It is a sign of vitality.
Happy birthday to Virginia Woolf, born on this day in 1882.
I wish you’d find the exit out of my head.