In a forest stitched from violet smoke, the Cheshire Cat unspools himself— stripe by stripe, like laughter pulled too thin. His grin arrives first— wide, lacquered, permanent— a crescent nailed to nothing, hovering like it forgot the rest of him. Colors ripple across his fur— electric pinks, fevered blues— but his eyes stay still, glass marbles in a carnival of mind. He speaks in riddles that go nowhere, words dissolving before they land, as if meaning itself were optional— a game he no longer feels. That smile never bends, never breaks, a mask fused tight to bone— joy without warmth, delight without pulse. And though the world warps and giggles around him, though mushrooms breathe and trees whisper secrets, he lingers untouched— a spectator in a painted dream. Until only the grin remains— floating, endless— a bright, hollow curve cut from the face of feeling.
