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.
They tell me there’s a bereftness in the curves of my breasts and an unfulfillment in my loose-girt loins.
They tell me I am barren of sensation and fertile in feeling.
They tell me God has taken away the beer and also the skittles and left me only pieces of bread and drinks of water.