But I looking at Me see a woman standing high on flame-washed battlements of her life in whom burn and beat the spirits and lights and star-discords of uncounted tired lustrous ages. I see me forlorn and radiant, drab and brilliant. I see me wrapped in a fiery potentiality of pain and beauty and love and sorrow. I hear wild voices in Me like horrid-sweet wailing of ghost-violins, muted but crying loudly in frightful reasonless vital joy and in unspeakable terror and sadness. I see Me ragged-clothed, bleeding, with disordered tangled hair and bloodshot eyes, with coarse soiled hands, broken-nailed, like a criminal’s: a woman of woes. And I see Me wistful in quiet pure garments like one seeking light. I see Me old as old sin and young as new Spring days. I see Me un-sanely sensitive and hardened over--closed in worldly cases: guarded antagonism round my thoughts, protecting indifference round my Heart, dead silence round my Soul. I see Me with brains to know, with prescient mind to grasp, with mobile sense to feel. I see Me all futile, all hopeless, all miserable. I see Me all poetry. I see Me all wonder, mystery and beauty. I see Me!-- --much more than that, _this_ Me sitting here! my deep gray wanton dark eyes: my lips--like pink flowers--with the inscrutable expression: my white fingers--slim, strong, glossy-nailed, silken at the tips. My glass gives Me back to Me, sitting by it, languid of Body, tense of spirit and Mind, bathed in witcheries of Self-- I love my Mary MacLane! Ah--I love her! It is good--since I can’t find God, since I can’t find way-of-truth however I grope about. Every human friendship I form throws me back more completely on myself. Whom then shall I love but myself? I know my own human enchantments and that they never fail me. I’ll know them more! I’ll love them more!--I’ll love them in sane madness lest mad madness overtake and destroy Me, Soul and bones. _No resonance_ To-morrow My life, myself, I know are nothing noble, nothing constructive. There is no resonance in this analysis, but all Dissonance. Something lives, lives muscularly in me that constantly betrays me, destroys me against all my own convictions, against all my own knowledge, against all my own desire. It may be true of Everybody. I don’t know. I think about it but get nowhere. It seems someway unlike God to make each person a something all of cross-purpose. But I doubt that I am different from Everybody. I doubt if I am anyway abnormal. I am very sane. A match-flame burns me the same as it burns Everybody: pins prick me and hurt. Yet I look in myself and see, through harmonic details, the massed Dissonance. I am dying in a pit. _Black-browed Wednesdays_ To-morrow All my life I’ve liked the Back of a magazine.