I have various other clothes. A woman--whatever her traits and tempers--garners what she can of handmade under-linens and dainty nightgowns and silk hose and all such private panoply. They are the apparel of her sex rather than her individuality. The uncognizant world is unable to judge her by them. But the woman herself judges and respects herself by the goodness of her intimate garments. My sex is to me a mystic gift. I marvel over it and clothe it silkenly. Also I own a healthful-looking percale house-gown or two in which I do housework. But my passing life, my eerie lonely life, is lived in my Two Dresses and none besides, and I need no more. _A prison of self_ To-morrow My Two Dresses tell me the scope of my present Mary-Mac-Lane-ness. Every day they tell me things about myself. They tell me I’m living in a prison of self, invisible and ascetic and somberly just. They tell me I’m living an outer life narrow and broodingly companionless and that if I were not self-reliant by long habit a leprous morbidness would rot me in body and spirit. They tell me because of outer solitude an inner fever of emotion and egotism and a fervid analytic light are on all my phases of self: mental, physical, psychical and sexual. They tell me my way of thought is at once meditative and cave-womanish. They tell me I’m all ways the Unmarried Woman and profoundly loverless. They tell me I’m like a child and like a sequestered savage. They tell me I am having no restful unrealities of social life with chattering women and no monotonous casually bloodthirsty flirtations with men. They tell me I walk daily to the edges of myself and stare into horrible-sweet egotistic abysses. They tell me I’m grave-eyed and coldly melancholy. They tell me there’s a bereftness in the curves of my breasts and an unfulfillment in my loose-girt loins. They tell me I am barren of sensation and fertile in feeling. They tell me God has taken away the beer and also the skittles and left me only pieces of bread and drinks of water. _A winding sheet_ To-morrow The least important thing in my life is its tangibleness. The only things that matter lastingly are the things that happen inside me. If I do a cruel act and feel no cruelty in my Soul it is nothing. If I feel cruelty in my Soul though I do no cruel act I’m guilty of a sort of butchery and my spirit-hands are bloody with it. The adventures of my spirit are realer than the outer things that befall me. To dwell on the self that is known only to me--the self that is intricate and versatile, tinted, demi-tinted, deep-dyed, luminous, gives me an intimate delectation, a mental inflorescence and sometimes an exaltation. It is not always so but it can be so. But always to look back on the mass of outer events that have made my tangible life darkens my day.