Wendy

“I'm sick to death of this particular self. I want another.”
― Virginia Woolf, Orlando

“Like any / unloved thing, I don’t know if I’m real /
when I’m not being touched.”
― Natalie Wee, Our Bodies & Other Fine Machines

“All the being and the doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated; and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisible to others.”
― Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse

“There must be another life, she thought, sinking back into her chair, exasperated. Not in dreams; but here and now, in this room, with living people. She felt as if she were standing on the edge of a precipice with her hair blown back; she was about to grasp something that just evaded her. There must be another life, here and now, she repeated. This is too short, too broken. We know nothing, even about ourselves.”
― Virginia Woolf, The Years