Advice to All The Other Alices

To all you other Alices looking through your shelves, sometimes it take so many pills to fall. And once you're there you're lost, but you're happy, because you found something you thought only existed in someone else's world. I wouldn't suggest tracing rabbits, but I would recommend Billie Holiday records and a nice soft spot to land.

Oh darling little Jupiter, I never thought these stars would all align. I understand now, dancing past Mars and Neptune. It's cold in outer space and Wonderland today, strange prickling wind rushing through all the trees. Orange and gold and brown; why didn't you fade?

To all you other Alices looking through the mirror, take all the trains but hide your ticket stubs. They'll be after you, but you're faster, freewheeling until you run out of ink and breath. I don't know what this last pill will do, pushing past the bonds of fragility and strength. There were a million holes to fall through, but we find ourselves dropping into the same Nothing Everything.


                 Some
                   days,
                     the
                       plunge
                          is
                            deeper
                               than
                                 others.

Sweet ash. Sweet light. Sweet execution of those moments that drag you deep and shoot you wide; that turn you large and small and pink and blue. Electric. But soft. And you're falling. And it does not fade. And I do not wish for it to fade, but I've never been very good at taking my medicine.