Was She Mad?
by Jenny Wren
Why do I write? Because, perhaps, in looking all about my poor, bare room, I find they still have left me pencil and paper I can call my own; because I must shut out the horrid sights and sounds which are my portion whene’er I cross my threshold; because when I close eyes and ears to these present horrors, other pictures come to haunt me, and I fly from myself. They call me mad. As if they knew. They have brought me here among these poor creatures, who know not what they do, nor where they are, and tell me that were… Read More