For now she need not think of anybody. She could be herself, by herself. And that was what now she often felt the need of - to think; well not even to think. To be silent; to be alone. All the being and the doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated; and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisible to others, and this self having shed its attachments was free for the strangest adventures.
—from To the Lighthouse, a book by Virginia Woolf
Active since December 30, 2016.
461 total characters in this text.
View Pit Stop page for this text
| Universe | Races | Average WPM | First Race |
|---|---|---|---|
| Long Texts | 94 | 87.88 | December 30, 2016 |
| Instant Death Mode | 4 | 99.87 | December 20, 2017 |
| Default (English) | 0 | 0.00 | January 1, 1970 |