Sinking with the Ink

1925 Tuesday, September 22nd

Leonard returns to the Hogarth Press by car.
The sound of gravel crunching. The afternoon light still lingers.

"Oh, you finished the shipments quite early today, didn't you?"

He says this without even taking off his hat.

Woolf does not look up from her desk.
The nib of her pen is a bit rough.

"Well, you see..."

She starts to say, then stops.
She rewrites something on the paper. The lines overlap.

She mutters, low and continuous.
Something about a series, an editor, a university.

Leonard is silent for a moment.
Then, he shrugs slightly and says,

"Ah, well then, shall I send them out from here?"

"Yes."

A short reply.

Woolf is still saying something.
But it is no longer coherent.
She is sinking with the ink.

Before long, the color outside the window changes.
A blue that looks as if it is holding water.

A thin trace of gold remains over the hills.

A sliver of light shines into the room,
and only the edges of the paper glow softly.

It is there that Woolf finally stops her hand.