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17 Oscar Wilde to-night. He longed for restless souls & played upon them as upon a lute. "Nay, [[strikethrough]] we must [[/strikethrough]] ^[[let us]] walk from fire unto fire". That is how I feel, those are the words that echo in my soul until I faint with the sense of them. The [[idea?]] of their meaning, which of a sudden I comprehend, makes me faint & ill. Howard would understand, he would know how to soothe me tonight, his presence would be balm to my frenzied soul. At least I still have it in my feel. Why not take advantage of this time & spend it entirely in the Studio, working & trying to put into form the too real thoughts of my restless mind. The longing after - the groping for - the mad reaching for, all the heartfelt aches, the tired mind, the heartburns, the closing of heated lids, the open mouth & the white smooth body. I will take off my clothes and will exercise