The sun had not yet risen. The sea was indistinguishable from the
sky, except that the sea was slightly creased as if a cloth had
wrinkles in it. Gradually as the sky whitened a dark line lay on
the horizon dividing the sea from the sky and the grey cloth became
barred with thick strokes moving, one after another, beneath the
surface, following each other, pursuing each other, perpetually.
As they neared the shore each bar rose, heaped itself, broke and
swept a thin veil of white water across the sand. The wave paused,
and then drew out again, sighing like a sleeper whose breath comesand goes unconsciously.
The amazing beginning of Waves, by Virgínia Woolf.
It's my reflection [or my own soul]
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