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132 Wednesday, May 14th 1930 [[strikethrough]] Friday 11, 1928 [[/strikethrough]] I strive to alternate writing here and writing to Bob. To Bob, I write all I think about other things — here I write my thoughts about Bob. Mother said she thought it’s too bad both ways — because if he stops liking me it will be sad; and if he keeps on more and more — then what? Five years is long. But this is so very lovely now, that even if he was to stop writing now, I should be sad, but happy in the reminicence of it. His letters are so grand, and so very Bob. I don’t know what to do about Lincoln. He likes me awfully, but he is not in love with me; he is in love with the idea of love and how Lincoln feels in love. There is no equality — he looks down on me from his logic. The incident was marvelous. I have never been as completely happy in my life. It was true singiness. But the singiness is over, and without it I don’t really like him. I respect his mind and admire him for his versatility, but those are not reasons for liking someone. I should like not to see him on a date again — I like to keep my thoughts of Lincoln with those of singiness — not as Lincoln seems to me now, stripped of glamour, — dull and drab, clouded with thoughts of Lincoln and a grey cloak of logic and coldness. But how can I end it? He wants to go on with a "happy medium." I've made him lose Margie — so now what? I think for once I shall be honest with him and myself and tell 133 Saturday, May 12, 1928 him all this — if I can! I’d rather wait I guess, too sentimental. I suppose I like living in heights and depths, and the level is monotonous and makes me discontented. Which is a bad way to be. Bob’s poem “Escape” is worth keeping to look back at — "There comes a time e'er now and then When things occur beyond our ken. When Heart and soul speak boldly forth — Together pledge for life a troth Of beauty, poesie, and Truth. There comes a time in this, our Life, When other things than earthly strife Well up from greater depths within, To drown the brass, discordant din Of [[strikethrough]] butlers [[/strikethrough]] kettles cooking cabbages and corn. There comes a time — quite soon forgot — When mortal pines for what is Not — On absinthe shading Cuff and Fist To silhouette a lovely tryst, On summer's eve beneath the moon. And Pierrot once more did [[strikethrough]] end [[/strikethrough]] laugh A sob — and rise up to the gaff." It’s nice —!
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