The Mark on the Wall is not about the mark. Or perhaps it is. A small, dark speck becomes the starting point for a cascade of thought—quiet, precise, wandering. In a room with a fire, a cigarette, and silence thick as dust, a mind drifts from memory to philosophy, from loss to structure, from trees to snails.
Virginia Woolf's voice here is both still and restless, charting the motion of consciousness as it moves without hurry or warning. This story does not ask for conclusions—it offers the sensation of thought itself. A brief, vivid descent into the private theatre of the mind.
