“How the mud goes round in the mind—what a swirl these monsters
leave, the waters rocking, the weeds waving and green here, black
there, striking to the sand, till by degrees the atoms reassemble, the
deposit sifts itself, and a gain through the eyes one sees clear and
still, and there comes to the lips some prayer for the departed, some
obsequy for the souls of those one nods to, those one never meets
again.” -Virginia Woolf
