Alice, life is a curious madhouse.
People shuffle in and out.
Somebody wants your head.
Every path leads to somewhere,
but you can’t go back to yesterday.

Never disappear for good.
But if you do
crawl through the wrong door,
come to the wrong party,
break your teacup—
eat me, drink me
such beautiful soup—
lose your muchness till you don’t
care which way you ought to go,
tomorrow is always another day
to while away and naysay,

tweedle by the sea
till your torso turns to paper,
you drip sand like an hourglass,
or your pig with wings flies in
to take you away, and you wake
from nonsense or reason.

Anna Cates

*Through the Looking-Glass (1871) by Lewis Carroll.