During the greater part of these two years, the patient spent much of his time in writing. 
Sometimes verses, or long letters of the most rambling character. This is one of the letters:

Dear Doctor,

To write or not to write, that is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to follow the 
visit of the great 'Fulbourn' with 'chronic melancholy' expressions of regret (withheld 
when he was here) that, as the Fates would have it, we were so little prepared to receive 
him. we were so little prepared to receive him. we were so little prepared to receive him. 
My Fulbourn star, but an instant seen, like a meteor's flash, a blank when gone.

To dust of ages covering my little sanctum parlour room, the available drapery to greet 
the Doctor stowed away through the midst of the regenerating (water and scrubbing - 
cleanliness next to godliness, political and spiritual) cleansing of a little world. The 
Great Physician walked, bedimmed by the 'dark ages' the long passage of Western
Enterprise, leading to the curvatures of the rising Eastern morn. The rounded configuration 
of Lunar (tics) garden's lives and o'ershadowment of Brittania's vortex . . .

After he left the Asylum he went to work at his trade, but two or three years later, 
He began to write very strangely again.