Woolf - my author, and the rudder of my life up until my feet found this ground - took her own life 63 years ago today.
She filled the pockets of her coat with rocks, stepped into the River Ouse and was not found until 18 April. This is not a sad day for me I am struck today, of all days, by my own ability to breathe when she cannot.
Best to you, Woolf. I shall watch with you until the sun goes down; until I've had my vision.