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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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