Oh, a madman. Oh, a tired companion on a journey. How does he tailor so smoothly with crooked scissors and broken string? He who has been burned like the lace and buttons in his hair can no longer float above the ground. Waiting under a cloudless rain, his favorite tea time, there sits a masterpiece musician with needles and thread. Yet he wouldn’t know when tea time is because he no longer gets on well with history or future. Hoping has forsaken him and his pocket watch. He can only sit and search in his tea leaves for that which will appear on the horizon. His eyes are closing but his mouth runs rapid in another world for which he waits. Everything is clear in the uncrowded mind, but things cannot help pressing in to clutter the space most uncompromisingly. He who once knew all riddles is questioning. But the answer is found in a cocoon. Once he walked along and dreamt of clouds shaped like things, stringing letters along with his needle, embroidering them into rhyme. Dreams are no longer his companions and his companions are now only dreams and housecats, housecats who scratch and bite with their sarcastic smiles and covetous paws, as if they know more than he. They smile grins that stir up the dregs of the sad-faced madman’s latest cup. He who converses with cats and rabbits must also converse with hares, although they do not say much. He is tired of the silence. This poor forgotten reminiscence can’t wait to be remembered. Do you see the stitches in his heart? Everything is impossible for this honored jester. He is piecing together nonsense. Because shards of insanity rain more gently than pieces of perfect sense, and perfect sense in pieces makes no sense at all. In fact, it makes nonsense, and seems only like a few halfhearted tries at getting along ahead when the feet are stumbling behind in shoes three sizes too big. He does not know that his head is in the sky or that he is too tall for his shoes. Sometimes being taller or smaller is much preferred to normality. Maybe he only needs some cake. His favorite food is buttered bread, but he generally eats scones. He was once an artist but he is now only an appointed court official, hanging on the end of an unanswered question. If the butterfly could speak, he would end the fluttering query. Sometimes a headpiece is more like a hat. And sometimes a headpiece is simply a hat. There is no truth truer than that.


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