I find myself more and more adopting the persona of the Cheshire Cat, blithely drifting in and out of situations, conversations, considerations, and honestly doing little to assist, input, or remonstrate, but rather just grinning all too broadly, incoherently, and quite probably insanely. On occasion I might vocalize, from high above, sitting semi-visible upon a branch, with no intent to elucidate, add context or color, beyond the sterling observation that all who inhabit the splendid realm of Wonderland are absolutely mad, and really should know better than to attempt to make any sense of the goings on at all.
The Cheshire is the great commentator, the venerable relater of fate and fortune, the surgical wielder of the scalpel that can dissect every cancer racking the body of the ordinary, excising the poison therein.
My unshakeable aim is ever to wax lyrical, always theorize philosophical, be the parody of practicality. For how, as the executioner ponders with the Red Queen, can you hope to behead a wholly disembodied pate.