In regard to WHAT, exactly would possess me to publish something I rattled off from about one to three o' clock in the morning, I can't really answer. I've been suffering from extreme writer's block, and this was the best I could do. I think my characterization of the Hatter is a little off. Sebastian Stan was AMAZING, way better than I expected… I went a little too twisted, too muddled to be darkness. I'll probably take this down in a week or so… That being said, hello, sorry I didn't publish anything for, like, a year, expect another Narnia story or something soon, probably a much better reboot of a little tale called "Similar Extremities", and enjoy this? I guess? I hope? Yay?

Grammar Lessons

"If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense. Nothing would be what it is, because everything would be what it isn't. And contrary wise, what is, it wouldn't be. And what it wouldn't be, it would. You see?" Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland.

I'm not crazy. (Get it to work, get it to work, get it to work.) I can't be crazy. (Get it to work, get it to work, get it to work.) There was a girl. There was laughter. (). There was a queen. (promisespromisespromises). There were hats and hats and hats and hats until my hands bled and stained the fabric and my eyes dimmed until all they could see were patterns and patterns and fabrics and colors. (Get it to work, get it to work, get it to work.) I was alone. (Get it to work, get it to work, get it to work.) There was thunder. And there was nothing. And I was alone. And nothing changed. There were hats and hats and hats and hats. There was a promise. And I couldn't keep it. Sosorrysosorrysosorry.

(promise is a noun. Or a verb. Some synonyms are as follows: assurance, guarantee.) I'm so sorry, so, so sorry, that I was able to do nothing. I'd ask you to forgive me but you can't. I'm sorry. I'll make it better. I promise. This time, I promise. I PROMISE. Please forgive me (but you can't).

Time passed…or did it? Time is a noun: occasion, era, period, phase, count.

Then the clock ticked and… HOPE. (Hope is a four-letter word).

You say I was the lucky one, out of everybody? I was lucky to understand what was happening to me? At least I knew what was going on? What I would give for ignorance. And then I hate myself for weakness. Cursed with the memories, the knowledge, the knowing. At least I have something. (I'm as big as an elephant but I'm lighter than a feather. What am I? Easy. The wind.) Right? But something is nothing and nothing is something, and I know what I know and you don't. You can't. I couldn't tell you. I'm sorry. Sosorrysosorrysosorry.

Wrong! You're wrong! I'm right! I'm doing the right thing! I have to be! Please believe me, I wanted to go back. I want to go back. I want to go back and be with you.

I am burdened by memories, each one another stone, another vice that holds me down, drags me deeper and deeper. I don't think of this place as a gilded cage. But appearances are deceiving. Who knows what they see, aside from themselves? Who knows what I know, aside from me? Nobody. Are you nobody? Who is? My reasoning isn't mad. Or maybe it is. But this entire situation is mad, mad, and mad. It's maddening. Almost as mad as me. Actually, I'm probably worse. Yes. I can confidently say that I am definitely worse. Or am I? Yes. This situation is more cruel than it is mad. It isn't ridiculous to assume that there are other worlds. Because there are.

Blonde hair and jeweled eyes, time-hardened face and a crooked smile, she is the golden key to unlock my world for me. Do you want some tea? Hope is tied up in brocade fabrics, drugged and unconscious on my sofa. Maybe… But no. Already tried. She can do it. Do you want some tea? Probably not. I insist, just like you. Hope.

Gold is the key, gold is the sight. Gold is the sun, the hope, and the light. Gold is a noun. Or an adjective. Through the gold I see Hope. Through the gold I see Grace. Hope and Grace are virtues, not sisters. Hope is the key to Grace.

(By day I am lost without being stolen? What am I? Do you really want to know? To know what you are? That'seasy. A star.)

The little girl's innocent eyes look up at me with trust and consideration. And grace. It's only fitting, isn't it, that Grace would be graced with grace? A virtue inside a verb inside a girl. A madman inside a prisoner inside a father. That's all I'll ever be.

Gold on gold. Another day, and…. the doorbell rings? A sound foreign, and discomforting. I walk downstairs, hands shaking off thread and ribbon, brushing away snippets of fabric that fall like darkened snow. Or rain. Whichever you like, just please send me home. I promised. I open the door and my eyes meet gold, gold and yellow hair, jeweled eyes. Hope.

"Your place is difficult to find without one of your maps," she says, and invites herself inside. It isn't teatime yet, but that's alright. I daresay I shan't be needing it. I hope. I won't. Gold on gold, and hope, a noun inside a noun inside a woman, is back.

Get it to work, get it to work, get it to work. Please. I just want to be with her again. I promised.