MY damnedest damningest quality is Wavering—Wavering—
I might say I prefer the dawn to the twilight or the twilight to the dawn.
Neither would be true.
I love the dawn—I love the twilight.
What I unconsciously prefer is the long negative Wavering space-of-day between the two.
I might say I prefer heaven to hell or hell to heaven.
Neither would be true.
My garbled gyral nature, partaking uneasily of both, prefers to wander and hang and float about between the two.
I might say I prefer strength to weakness or weakness to strength.
Neither would be true.
What I prefer is a hellish hovering, an endless torturing Tenterhook between the two.
And that Wavering preference is against my will, against my reason, against my judgment, against my taste and liking—against my life, my welfare, my salvation: against the clear lights of my spirit.
I know I work intently and industriously at the articles of my damnation in the Wavering—Wavering—
