One reason it will be pleasant to be dead: I can then no longer Waver.
Worms will eat me unwaveringly. Or they may then do the Wavering.
But _I_ shall no more pause with a bare foot and an empty stocking, a
dish of food and a gnawing midriff.
Here I sit as yet, alive and Wavering.
The Wavering is not the pale cast of thought: it is not my way of
analysis: it is only Wavering--Wavering--
Wavering is not among the blue-green Stones in my antique necklace:
not by that name--not as one Stone.
It is a marked and hateful and hellish gift of this present Me who
house my Soul.
It is half of this Mary MacLane--who is I--: and I know.
I am constant alone--noticeably tensely constant--in my Wavering: and
less constant in Wavering than in the ghoulish preference.
An odd and subtle doom.
_A thousand kisses_