[Just beneath my skin]
To-morrow
THIS I write is a strange thing.
So close to fact: so far from it.
So close to truth: so surrounded by lies.
It does not contain lies but is someway surrounded by a mist of lies.
A strange thing about it is that it is expressing the Self Just Beneath My Skin.
That Self is someways trivial and outlandish and mentally nervous, flightly, silly—silly to a verge of tragicness. I know that to be true from a long acquaintance with me. It is oddly intriguing to read over some chapters and find it shown.
Some unconscious exact photography aids my writing talent.
Some chapters are bewilderingly and mysteriously true to life.