An Observance After Reading a Chapter of Virginia Woolf

The brick building before me hunches on small tender feet of grey concrete as if posed to pounce and crush us all beneath its terrible weight and consume the tender birches with their slender trunks and their bowing branches gently falling and reaching for a pool beside them in the way a woman’s hair reaches for the hand of a lover.  But the building stays silent and stationary like an anxious but domesticated dog with a well-bred sense of good manners it sits with a yearning anxiety for freedom, but instead remains seated or else chokes itself against its collar in a fit of rage and desperate fury and so dies along amidst the pale rays of a yellow setting sun in Spain.  The water chirps and chuckles happily in absence of boisterous birds and is happy to be alone with its secret thoughts and with the admiration of the slender trees that wait in longing next to it.  An ant crawls across a foot and I let it live so that it may know night and wait in terror for the dawn when it finds comfort and happiness again until the next dusk, although I may no longer be here to keep it company while he sees the setting of another pale sun in Spain.

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This entry was posted in Prose.

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