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_