One cannot speak of oneself as I have been tonight. It must be some other girl, when one speaks of her.

This other girl! T'was she that lay in a rose scented bath lit by candles of Shiva and the Madonna, drinking a wedding-draught of rum and reading about the scalloped tatters of the King in Yellow. She dreamed in shallow water and white porcelain, and thought of nothing, of looking, of love. That her love sought nothing. And what did she want, lying there in the water, dreaming of princesses and stars and word after word in the dark, but unhidden?

One who would look, and that is all.

<<agé chose>>

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