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I'm telling you, I'm not going to say the accepted thing. So you can brand me as an ingratiate or whatever else or ignore . . .I have been ignored so many times it makes little difference . . .but I won't say what you have trained me to say. In my dining room there are faces that appear at dark, in day disappear. They are real: one is two-faced, another red-faced, the third I do not recall. I will have to look again when I am in there, when it is dark and the light is on. How much does God love me? And why don't I feel any of it? Simple, you are supposed to be loved unfeelingly; you are supposed to be grateful that you can breathe, that the stomach can take in food and get rid of it. And if you are sick enough you will be so. I long for feeling to grow dead in me for the man I loved, but the son of a bitch just hangs on. And I know there isn't anything to it, but it stays in my mind as all horrible things have a tendency to, and I keep hoping someone will say something to dispel it as it dispelled itself twice when I had to care for him, when I ought to have cared for him. Yes, that is it: the obligatory I resent; whatever is required, I go against. Some being you gave me: rebellion the only thing I can count on, requisition the key to what I won't do. Require me, then, to love him, and I shall hate: anything requiring my best will bring out my worst.
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