It could not last, she knew, but at the moment her eyes were so clear that they seemed to go round the table unveiling each of these people, and their thoughts and their feelings, without effort like a light stealing under water so that its ripples and the reeds in it and the minnows balancing themselves, and the sudden silent trout are all lit up hanging, trembling.
—  Virginia Woolf, from “To The Lighthouse,
And please understand
that I will never
get tired of listening
to the songs
of your lonely heart—
even if I failed
to understand it
—  ma.c.a // I’m sorry if my silence hurts you so bad