ElysianPen

I remember wanting to become a writer, once upon a younger self; but I spent more time practicing suicide notes than stories, and though endings have become easier, to this day I can't think up a proper beginning. I wear sandals even on rainy days because I still can't knot my sneaker laces well enough to keep pace with the faces of the crowds I blend into. I've bound books of blank white paper pages with the shoestrings I've tripped over, cured the covers with the chain-smoke of self-hate-- I know it's bad for me-- so that you won't find many happy days in this library. I'm wise enough to know that dreams are a ten thousand part cocktail

When Nawala fell down the rabbit-hole, it was no accident. She'd been scouring the forest for hours, hoping to stumble upon a mud-sullied and root-barred gateway to a land of clever Cheshire Cats, jauntily insane Hatters, and implacable Queens of Hearts. She had fervently yearned for her own mad tea-party since she'd first heard of Alice's tale when she was a small child; and now the yearnings had exploded into an insatiable appetite for adventure. She even wore her very own baby blue frilled dress, complete with a stark white apron and glossy black flats: all the prerequisite paraphernalia for a walk through Wonderland. So she continued her