She was sitting on the porch and bit her crackers.
With a sip she took from the cup of coffee, her minds wondering and only God knows where.
"Are we supposed to feel hope?"
There was no answer, not yet.
She kept asking the same thing until the evening came.
Every secret of a writer's soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind is written large in his works. - Virginia Woolf.
No comments:
Post a Comment