10 June 1692, Friday
The night wanes whilst the horizon fades into pink and shadow. Again, I struggle, quill in hand, and the words, and the words, and the words escape me. When I cannot work with what I know, when I am dumb, what becomes of me? When words no longer make sense, who am I?
Perhaps I should stop here. I hardly know what I write. I watch my own hand move as though it belongs to someone else, and I am as surprised as anyone at what appears on the page. I am beyond numb. Beyond thinking. Beyond expression. Perhaps I am as engulfed by the madness as anyone. I do not know what else to call it but madness. The finger pointing, the accusations, the leers, the cheers when things go badly for others. The onlookers who cannot turn away, compelled to see how it turns out for the unfor
