A.M.

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I have got to what for me is a demoralizing point, the challenging of everything I think or do to detect lust of result. Everything, from one angle is just that thing—aspiration for union, the preparation for the Work assigned one.

I am in Midwinter’s shoes.

P.M.

9 drops of grass.

Two flashes of unadorned Desire—not pretty. Money just clearing water front of U.S.—perhaps one day out.

Have discovered that a certain drawing back of the upper lip which heretofore has always repelled me, really attracts—perhaps I should say, I found myself in harmony with it.