“ It was love, she thought, pretending to move her canvas, distilled and filtered; love that never attempted to clutch its object; but, like the love which mathematicians bear their symbols, or poets their phrases, was meant to be spread over the world and become part of the human gain.
To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf
Little Hurricane
I am 19 years young. I am in 2nd year university studying English Literature and Psychology. Everybody blogs and now so do I.
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