and consumes me with its horrid feverish effervescence; when I feel the all-hatred of the Universe for its poor little earth-bugs: then it is that I approach nearest to Rest.
The softnesses are my Unrest.
I do not want those bitter things.
But I must have them if I would rest.
I want the softnesses and I want Rest!
Oh, dear faint soul, it is hard—hard for us.
We are sick with loneliness.
