Then Jinny came. She flashed her fire over the tree. She was like a crinkled poppy, thirsty with the desire to drink dry dust. Darting, angular, not in the least impulsive, she came prepared. So little flames zig-zag over the cracks in the dry earth. She made the willows dance, but not with illusion; for she saw nothing that was not there. It was a tree; there was the river; it was afternoon; here we were; I in my serge suit; she in green. There was no past, no future; merely the moment in its ring of light, and our bodies; and the inevitable climax, the ecstasy.

— Virginia Woolf, The Waves