March 17, 1838 Dear Diary, Today while sitting in the crispy cold weather, with the clothes that now resembled rags, I sat pondering my life. My face now covered in the unpleasant texture of dirt and smut from the factory; now appeared to have become a part of m. My hands disarrayed and my cracked hands bandaged lay tight in my lap and now mirrored my life. I haven’t any parents to speak of so I found myself this alley where I write to you. Not far from work I await the loud bell to alarm me of my next shift down at the factory. Suddenly a gust of cool frost wind blew right in my direction; squinting against it and quivering violently I grasped onto my letters that I gathered over the years to fall into the rights hands. I huddled in the