A long sigh of “ah” followed the moment gears set into place, perfect alignment, a pause, a click, the start of machinery at long last in place as I understood Virginia Woolf’s writing style and its affects on my own; the reason for my prose, my weaving of words into sentences and sentences into stories; stories of thoughts which I believed — until today — to be whimsical nonsense of a chaotic brain; while instead, it is alright, I am alright, my writing is alright; that here I am, and all I have to do is write.