MY Two Dresses tell me the scope of my present Mary-Mac-Lane-ness.
Every day they tell me things about myself.
They tell me I'm living in a prison of self, invisible and ascetic and somberly just.
They tell me I'm living an outer life narrow and broodingly companionless and that if I were not self-reliant by long habit a leprous morbidness would rot me in body and spirit.
They tell me because of outer solitude an inner fever of emotion and egotism and a fervid analytic light are on all my phases of self: mental, physical, psychical and sexual.
They tell me my way of thought is at once meditative and cave-womanish.
They tell me I'm all ways the Unmarried Woman and profoundly loverless.
They tell me I'm like a child and like a sequestered savage.
They tell me I am having no restful unrealities of social life with chattering women and no monotonous casually bloodthirsty flirtations with men.
They tell me I walk daily to the edges of myself and stare into horrible-sweet egotistic abysses.
They tell me I'm grave-eyed and coldly melancholy.
