i am not a woman, but the light that falls on this gate, on this ground. i am the seasons, I think sometimes, january, may, november; the mud, the mist, the dawn. i cannot be tossed about, or float gently, or mix with other people.

‍ ‍ ‍‍ ‍ ‍‍ ‍ ‍‍ ‍ ‍‍ ‍ ‍ — virginia woolf.