To-morrow

I HAVE been so long Sane it would be gay and sweet and resting to go Mad.

I would I could go Mad.

To a Mad-woman a Door is not a Door, probably: a Cat is not a Cat, belike: and To-morrow is not To-morrow at all—it may be week-before-last, it may be next year, it may be an exquisite jest. One can not tell what it is.

It is the thing one escapes by going Mad: Monotony.

It’s all beneficent bedlam.