--come the last of the Thousand in a swirling silly lovely lightly-insane shower--and I feel exactly like a woman in the next street who goes forth clad in mustard-and-cerise with a devilish black-and-white Valeska-Suratt parasol: and more--much more--I feel the way she _looks_-- For this Wanton-thing is not amour but psychology: in it I am less the mænad than the philosopher: less the Cyprian woman than the Muse. I am a deeply gifted woman. I am not prone on my green couch, frayed, frazzled, bowed-down in spirit from a day of frightful stress and cross-purpose. Instead, hair-triggerishly alive, with definite desire beating hotly this moment in my throat: the wish for Kisses--Kisses far removed from Death and Graves and Coffins: Kisses of this present clock-tickingness, Kisses useless, meaningless, sweet--oh, _sweet_!-- --in number, a Thousand: in kind. Wanton. _A fluttering-moth wish_ To-morrow A wish that God would come personally to see me flutters in my thoughts ever and anon like a restless moth. I am in a prison-mood and coldly content to be in it. For how long content--content is not the word: despairingly acquiescent--there’s no word to express that--I can noway tell. But now I live and breathe aloof and strange-mooded. And with it I wish God would visit me a moment. It is not a strong wish. Yet restless and persistent. I want to be free from myself and away, loosed in the little broad big narrow World: but first and more I want God to visit me. I want people again, those away from here who are my friends--some glowing-spirited ones who appreciate my Mind and cater to me: I want, I think, a poet to love me with some unobvious madness: but first and more I want God to visit me. More than I want strength of spirit and flesh, more than I want a fat mental peace, more than I want to know John Keats in star-spaces: more than I want my dream-Child: I want God to visit me. More than I wish this appalling tiredness would leave me: more than I wish this I write to be a realization, a _de-fait_ portrait of the thin-hidden Me, my self-expression achieved: more than I want to be quit of my two black dresses and back in the wide sweet frivol of variegated clothes: I want God to visit me. God must know all about that. He must have known it a long time. He still does not come. If he would come and tell me one thing, one _certain_ thing, it would be enough. It would show me a direction and I could keep on in it by myself. If God would tell me even a sheerest matter-of-fact, for _sure_--like What O’Clock by his time it really _is_: that would be a spark from which I could build an eternal fire for myself. Forever after I could dispense with God as a personality.