"A Portrait of Alice"

#0001. There is a thread that runs between all worlds. Falsely attributed permanence. The thing you feel like is a soul is this, instead. Her name is Alice. In every world she is there. Her porcelain face is in every star, every winking void. Shudder to think of it. She fills each moment with her glory. Gods call her your majesty. Heaven shrinks at her touch. She is in all things. There is a thread that runs between all worlds. Her name is Alice.

"Athena and the Dream of Athena"

#0002. She wakes up, but doesn't wake up, still sleeping, still luscious in her sleep, still wrapped in soft blankets in a soft bed and her eyes flutter from dreaming because she is dreaming. She wakes up, somewhere else. She wakes up and opens her eyes that flutter elsewhere from dreaming. She sees herself there. And she is hypnotized by her own beauty. She is one thing, united, gorgeous in her sleep. And she wonders which her selves is the real one. There is no answer. Each thinks of themselves as the true Athena. They are both correct.

"Baby Crackleface"

#0003. Each day you try to breathe and each day you fail. Do you worry that you are not even alive? That is a worry you should have. All the worries are worries you should have.

"Itchy and Otis"

#0004. There are moments when friendships die on withered vines. These two folks are good folks. They lived together in sterling heights, growing old together. They wondered all the same things that you wonder. Is there a purpose in their living? Is there a purpose in their dying? Each of them lived together but all alone. They wondered all the same things that you wonder. But their wondering was justified. They were all alone together in a cramped little apartment. No heat. No light. Just one another, separated by unseen force. The hollows of their eyes are all that is left there now. They wondered all the same things that you wonder.

"Rising"

#0005. Don't surrender to your sullen void. The things that make you spark will dance like fire on your lashing tongue. The burning gives way and you want to see what makes you tick. Here is a garbage heap of misery. But the sky is blue and so is the sky. The dancers are sparks on your lashing tongue. Watch the mystery hours unfold. They left this out for you to stumble across. And you thank them for their moment. The dancers are tongues themselves, burning out like the dying embers. This place is a secret place.

"She is Watching the Watcher, She is Watching Who Watches Her"

#0006. I have forgotten the things that made me breathe. She has that gentleness. She is not Alice, but Alice breathes through her like Alice breathes through all things. Look out the window and there she is, staring back. Her face is a paper mask. Her face is a porcelain husk. She is drawing out the guts of me. I am keeping pace with her stare. She is a Whisper. Name her Whisper. This Whisper.

"A Rabbit Would Trade Its Kingdom for an Ounce of Fear"

#0007. They were the apex predators of dawn. They were the kings of all they surveyed. They were the dominators of entire races, species, worlds. And they were bored of the drudgery. They smiled at the universe with unfurled teeth. They were conquerors and then they abdicated their grisly thrones. They missed the fear. They missed the worry. I cannot understand them. I would gladly trade my pounds of fear for their forsaken kingdom.