"So fine was the morning except for a streak of wind here and there that the sea and sky looked all one fabric, as if sails were stuck high up in the sky, or the clouds had dropped down into the sea. A steamer far out at sea had drawn in the air a great scroll of smoke which stayed there curving and circling decoratively, as if the air were a fine gauze which held things and kept them softly in its mesh, only gently swaying them this way and that. And as happens sometimes when the weather is very fine, the cliffs looked as if they were conscious of the ships, and the ships looked as if they were conscious of the cliffs, as if they signalled to each other some message of their own. For sometimes quite close to the shore, the Lighthouse looked this morning in the haze an enormous distance away."
Virginia Woolf, To The Lighthouse
Vogue Australia August 2013 - Sofia Coppola
Sometimes the morning is so fine that you don't want to get up. Not slowly, not with cashmere, not at all. But you have to - despite all temptations otherwise - you have to. You have to get shit done. So you get out of bed, and you go into that morning haze and you don't look back.
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