The table drawer was full of writings,
Some very beautiful,
Some made no sense.
He looked over the edge of the sofa down into the sea,
The air buffeted his cheek like the wings of a bird,
The dead were with him.
In a pocket of warmth at the edge of the woods,
The lighted house where the door stood open,
A bright woman descended, a match burning in a crocus.
Trees dragged their limbs through the depths of the air,
The sound of the waves was in the room, sea birds calling,
Far away on the shore he heard the singing of dogs.
Every power poured its treasures on his head,
Fear no more, said the heart in the body, Fear no more.
The soul must be brave to endure.
—Virginia Woolf enters the mind of a character
she created who suffers from PTSD
