The back stack of our gas kiln is full, the door to the kiln closed, the studio lights shut off. The sun has set, the dog and cat are fed and Warren and I set out for our walk. Our footsteps pound a rhythm, our conversation piercing the cold. The words we speak pour out from whiteness and go to nothingness with an intimacy unavailable in daylight.
Never are voices so beautiful as on a winter's evening, when dusk almost hides the body, and they seem to issue from nothingness with a note of intimacy seldom heard by day.
-- Virginia Woolf, Night and Day (published by Duckworth, 1919)