Virginia Woolf. Monday or Tuesday... (№ 436394)

Thirst for truth, a premonition of it, a relentless search for words, an eternal thirst for truth. Dreaming by the fireplace, looking at the white marble slab. Words emerge from its matte depth, fill with blackness, take shape, approach. The book has fallen; what, flames, smoke, flashes of sparks - or soaring, a marble slab tilts, minarets float below, distant seas, you drown in the azure sky, you see the twinkling of stars - is it true? Well, are you closer to her now?