then do the Wavering. But I shall no more pause with a bare foot and an empty stocking, a dish of food and a gnawing midriff.
Here I sit as yet, alive and Wavering.
The Wavering is not the pale cast of thought: it is not my way of analysis: it is only Wavering—Wavering—
Wavering is not among the blue-green Stones in my antique necklace: not by that name—not as one Stone.
It is a marked and hateful and hellish gift of this present Me who house my Soul.
It is half of this Mary MacLane—who is I—: and I know.
I am constant alone—noticeably tensely constant—in my Wavering: and less constant in Wavering than in the ghoulish preference.
An odd and subtle doom.
