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 bitter-ish 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.
