Page:I, Mary MacLane (1917).pdf/243

 ings, beside her words and in their rhythm.

Said I: 'What do you, and how do you, with me now?'

Said the Soul: 'I grow tired with you. Exasperated. Desperate. As if I too wore flesh. You are a deathly prison, a torture chamber. I turn everywhere and nowhere at all. You tire me—you wear me. I wait. I stay. Yet I move.'

She looked lovely, my Soul—and quite in and of this lovely world in its bloody bitter wrappings of bone and flesh. Around her neck was the Necklace she wore in all the ages, showing greenish in a dusk of gentian blue.—

All of it slyly garbles and cross-purposes me a little bit more than usual.

I wish I'd been born a Wild Boar.