Хвилі

           Mytrafficshaveledmeintostrangeplaces.Men,howmany,havebrokenfromthewallandcometome.Ihaveonlytoholdmyhandup.Straightasadarttheyhavecometotheplaceofassignation--perhapsachaironabalcony,perhapsashopatastreetcorner.Thetorments,thedivisionsofyourliveshavebeensolvedformenightafternight,sometimesonlybythetouchofafingerunderthetable-clothaswesatdining--sofluidhasmybodybecome,formingevenatthetouchofafingerintoonefulldrop,whichfillsitself,whichquivers,whichflashes,whichfallsinecstasy.

           ’Ihavesatbeforealooking-glassasyousitwriting,addingupfiguresatdesks.So,beforethelooking-glassinthetempleofmybedroom,Ihavejudgedmynoseandmychin;mylipsthatopentoowideandshowtoomuchgum.Ihavelooked.Ihavenoted.Ihavechosenwhatyelloworwhite,whatshineordullness,whatlooporstraightnesssuits.Iamvolatileforone,rigidforanother,angularasanicicleinsilver,orvoluptuousasacandleflameingold.Ihaverunviolentlylikeawhipflungouttotheextremeendofmytether.