It looks like a flower, but it does not smell like one. The colours please the eyes; it survives without the sun.

The gesture warms the heart; its intention is well said. Though, a live one would be neat as this one is quite dead.

How was it made with only folds? There is zero tape. It’s presence, too, seems to be creating a moodscape.

One is fine; it really is, although it’s no bouquet. Plus, not needing water should prevent early decay.

Still so unsure what was done to deserve all this fuss; accounts that deserve such nice this way are nebulous.

It shall stay by the bed to be seen upon awake where what it means from heart to heart will a best day make.

Even though it’s paper and cannot seed more pink blooms, in dreams, it emits flakelets that blossom through whole rooms.

So, is a flower real if paper are it’s petals? Of course! As only real can call where happy settles. ; )


Alice wondered, “How can one be sure that the paths following a drink or an eat are the right ones? How can I know I am following as I should when the land seems so dark and foreboding?”

Thoughts broken by an unseen creature’s outgrabe, Alice insisted the identity of the unknown.

“I am you, of course. Do not you recognize your own voice?”

“How can you be me if I am here and you are…somewhere…else?” Alice asked a bit shaken and unsure.

“I am wherever you are because I am you. Senses are not sensible, you see, for a sense is not reality.”

“Well, I suppose that makes sense…erm..I mean…”

“I know exactly what you mean; it is one of the advantages of being you. You had a question in need of an answer, no?”

“Yes, yes I did. Sometimes the path I walk seems dark and I do not know how to return to the light path–the right path.”

“Well, dearest Alice, you already know the answer. Your problem is that you are asking the wrong question. You see, even when you only see dark, others see you in the light–and how can that not be right?”

“But, how do others see me in the light when I am standing in its absence?”

“Alice, that which worries you is what?”

“Not knowing. I want to know.”

“How did you get where you are right now?”

“You mean where I am standing?”


“Well, there was this rabbit hole, you see–”

“And you entered this rabbit hole.”

“Well, more like *fell*.”

“So, would you say you chose to enter the rabbit hole?”

“Well, no, not really. I mean, there was this rabbit and I was curious–”

“So, you were following the rabbit. Did you ask the rabbit if it was hopping down a right or wrong path before you followed it?”

“Well, no.”

“Then, why did you follow it if you were not sure down what kind of path it was leading you?”

“Well, I…was curious…and I wanted to see where it was going in such a hurry.”

“So, you went down a path under uncertain terms because you *wanted* what was down that path.”

“Yes. I wanted to know more about the white rabbit.”

“And, following that white rabbit has eventually led you here, to this darkness.”

“Well, I did not think it would lead me here.”

“Ah, but Alice, no one can predict where a path will lead and to think any path will stay the same shade forever–”

“Yes, you are right.”

“Neither can we retrodict which choices led us to our current state, Alice, for there are countless lines passing through any point.”

“So, then, I guess, there is no way of knowing if one is on the right path?”

“Alice, what is the right path?”

“I do not know!”

“Do you ever feel that your search for an answer to determining the right path is somewhat of a Sisyphean task?”


“Perhaps you should ask a different question, then.”

“I am tired of asking questions; so many seem unanswerable. I just want to find my way out of this darkness.”

“How will you do that?”

“I suppose I will just keep walking.”

“That sounds like a wisest of ideas, Miss Alice.”

“But, remember, Alice, when you find yourself surrounded by drab lands of drabbing, you are not on the wrong path: you are enlightening the unlit–for it is those who question their righteousness who have the least reason for worry.”

“Thank you, unseen friend, for your time and wisdom.”

“Not so unseen, dearest Alice. You can always find me in the looking glass.” ; )


There is no lesson from gnomology that has ever helped produce a dream achieved, especially regarding connections. Sitting in reverie, wondering what it’s like to be touched, trying to remember the last time skin contacted skin in a hold instead of a brush, lips purse and eyes lower in accepted fate. Strength exists under an outer layer of mansuetude, but attraction to either kind owned by this body has never required hands out of pockets. Every assurance that connections will come is discounted–in spite of a comforting truth being desired above all–as if taken from a pseudologer. Even the occasional hold seems distant and fleeting, with separating elements awaiting the path being walked. Patience and hope are all that remain; if one will not be chosen, then one may is well choose the self.


The convention center on a Saturday night, albeit a brilliant scene, was not deemed an appropriate venue for hymeneal services. Our nang friend’s offer was respectfully declined and, in its stead, was presented a request for tickets to the place’s ‘ Empire Of The Sun’ concert the following week–a sort of homecoming from the honeymoon. The attempt made, a contrite demeanour the day after the following day let us know that the show was sold out of tickets; even the comfort of the sorrowful hands upon shoulders was not enough to rub in a vulnerary salve for remedying the disappointment. Do positive intentions matter if they always fail? Should one depend on those who oft disappoint, even if not due to their own faults? A night’s-rest refreshed, morning dreams lit the mind with a profound quodlibet: intentions matter most for there is no control over any life host; we are all bound to fail, often many times over, before setting sail. Having convinced myself of peace, soon afterwards a call was retrieved: VIP backstage passes for the three of us–a favor cashed because patience believed. ; )


Skys of clouds of droplets aglow–here, but not there–because these are bonded with luciferase. The science says it is not so? Then, what creates lambent reflections off the sea if not the fire-clouds’ offspring? A theory of thought met with resistance does not imply errancy for it may be the case that the experience of being develled has left processing somewhat less precise, but explanations are certainly far from maladroit regardless of the extent to which they merit agreeableness. Also, the sea did not turn the mountainous rocks into sand; synchronicity placed them so that the sea turtles would not need to wait for an adequate nesting material for their young. Imagine absurdity a reality and reality becomes an absurdity; hence, to dream and to enjoy are the only paths worth walking. ; )

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