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.
[A deathly pathos]
To-morrow
I LOVE the sex-passion which is in this witching Body of me. I love to feel its portent grow and creep over me, like a climbing vine of tiny red roses, in the occasional dusks.
It is no shame or shadow or sordidness: but beauty and sweetness and light.
no token of sin: a token of virtue.