It's the things that one considers unimportant and stupid that are most thought about. Politics. Feelings. The answer, the question, the purpose, the motive, the angle, the result. It's all a giddy riddle, double D by double D, and the whole fat world's a naked model posing for a treasure map, flaws dolled up by X's.
It's those little, unimportant things that dig in and fester until the whole world's been created from some imaginative blemish, some clot in the brain that took over by the guise of unconsciousness and exploded out across a little girl's brain. The question, the answer, the girl and the cat. She who questions and he, it, who knows, who looks and knows and laughs and laugh and—she is god, she is the victim—and the entire, ludicrous cycle is so cracked and inescapable until she cheats, and Alice wakes up.
But that doesn't make it over. That doesn't ever make it over.
The game is only up with the players have all left and the pink flamingos with their two-faced necks, straight and floppy, are all set up and ready to play, waiting for the true queen to come and rob the imposter—the ridiculous, pathetic, shambling joke of a placeholder—to be knocked off her blundering behind. Off with her head, off with her head!
So the cat prowls and bends and does whatever he so pleases, because none of this is real, and the whole world's a dream, and he like all the others are proper English fancies all waiting for their queen.