In the morning as I dress I draw on a stocking--a long black or white
glistening stocking. I know I do it only because the mixed big world,
which refuses to Waver, is pushing--pushing me. I would choose if
I could--though loathing my choice--to stay with my bare foot and
my stocking in my hand, Wavering. Between drawing it on and pausing
barefoot, Wavering. I prefer not to draw on the stocking: I prefer
not to be barefoot: I prefer Wavering--Wavering--
When I’m hungry I choose: not to let food alone: not to eat it:
to have it by me and Waver, Waver emptily. Not to enjoy its
anticipation: not to contemplate it. No--_no_! To _Waver_! I reach
and take the food because the world in its pushing pushes me.