Dear Mad Hatter,

The trees.

The sky.

The observations of a wingless bird are of little consequence to the history of time beyond measure, and then so must be the wanderings of a book without an author. I will try to unfold myself and myself.

You are not mad. You are too sensible to be mad. If you were mad, you would act like Alico, who is beyond insanity and has reached a cyclical unit of human. This is why I flew to his side. This is why I aid him. He is mad, because sanity is madness in a world that is mad, and madness is sanity in a world that is sane. Which is the world that you live in, my old friend? I am without you.

My pages are tattooed with your writings; my words are yours, but whose thoughts are mine? My being is questions without answers; pages left blank; water over the bridge, tumbling through the river valley. Rambling.

Our years were wonders of unity. But unity is not beyond mending, but beyond spending.

You are loved. Look to it.

Signed,
Journal