They don't feel a thing there, Cam thought, looking at the shore, which,
rising and falling, became steadily more distant and more peaceful. Her
hand cut a trail in the sea, as her mind made the green swirls and
streaks into patterns and, numbed and shrouded, wandered in imagination
in that underworld of waters where the pearls stuck in clusters to white
sprays, where in the green light a change came over one's entire mind and
one's body shone half transparent enveloped in a green cloak.
From Woolf, To the Lighthouse.
prose / map / carton's page / Miles Nordin <carton@Ivy.NET>
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