Chairs, china, cupboards, a tearoom in free fall. Drink me, says a pink bottle. Eat me, says a strawberry cake. Strangers in hanging pictures bend over to watch him go. This isn’t nowhere, but it certainly isn’t somewhere.

How far down was this particular where? Did it go on for forever? Consulting his white rabbit on the ins-and-outs of such wheres was only appropriate. “How long is forever?” he appeals for advice.

“Sometimes, just one second,” she advises. Yet the seconds pass and on they fall. They play chess. They play checkers. They exhaust all the words they knew and hold their breaths till they turn blue.

“I’m oh-so impatient, dear rabbit,” he hollers into the vast where that feels both familiar and changed — who changed it? Questions are the grandest in their infinitesimal answers. Trust can override any teensy inconsistency. How relieving!

“Sometimes the hurrier we go, the behinder we get,” she adds, cheeks turning a roguish purple. Mischief finds a happy home under the beads of her eyes. It rises to smile without reason. Reason raises another inconsequential inquiry.

“Tell me of Wonderland to keep me,” he sits up. Stories are best heard sitting up. New concepts have the tendency to slip through ear canals, so school taught him to sit up straight — was he missing school right now? The exact date slipped his mind many chairs, china, and cupboards ago. 

“Wonderland is where the wonders live.” She lays back. What a slippery idea to have sent her sliding at its mere utterance. Either Wonderland is named after the wonders that live in its where, or Wonderland was and wonders are.

“What are wonders?” he reasonably asks. 

“They live in Wonderland, where the throne remains unmanned,” she unreasonably answers then unanswers. Asking again would be rude, and he doesn’t. Trust fills in the trapping gaps. But this particular where exhausts all its surprises and could benefit from signs of different colors and sizes. So she throws him a bone about Wonderland’s throne, “It’s every wonder for themselves on the day of the twelves.”

Chairs, china, cupboards, a tearoom crashes in a bed of gracious greens and refreshing reds. Rose thorns are blunt to the touch. Fascinating. Falling from that where to this doesn’t hurt in the least. He could lay there, without a name for this where, forever. For seconds or more — he's in no hurry. She swats at petals sticking to white ears and springs away into high walls of grievous greens and redundant reds.

“Wait, dear rabbit! I’m worried what I’ll find at this maze’s end,” he calls out. “Will Wonderland accept a non-wonder like me?” He gets no answer, irrelevant or insignificant otherwise. He wonders if perhaps her long ears are near-sounded. Another question begging an unsatisfactory answer: must wonders wonder? 

Prerequisites are a bog to his potential. He wanted to learn how to swim in school. Sitting up is much more practical but much less exciting. Excitement isn’t reasonable — it leads nowhere trying to get somewhere.

Nearer, yet out of sight, she reads his mind’s roses to comfort him thus: “Store your worries in the cupboard, for there’s much left to be explored.”

“What if I forget I put it here?” he argues. He doesn’t know this here, let alone the where here is. Reason is opposed to excitement. Impulsively chasing another cannot last forever. For more than just one second. He’s been taught better, he has. 

“You may soon fret, but you’ll never really forget,” she answers and then unanswers again. He doesn’t think it would be nice if something made sense for a change. Worry and reason go hand-in-hand into the collapsed cupboard. He’ll never really forget to come back for it — he never really forgets to sit up for a story. Uncertainty breeds both trust and excitement. 

Through the garden’s maze he follows her voice. They could play chess. They could play checkers. They could exhaust all the words they knew and could hold their breaths till they turn blue. But forever is sometimes just one second, and in a clearing stands a house quite curious.

“This is Wonderland.” She announces with a sweet lilt and the hint of a jilt, “We’re all wonders here.”

Blues, purples, reds, greens, the house is quite obscene. But there’s excitement abound in corridors and rooms galore. This isn’t nowhere. It’s a certain somewhere. Wonderland is.

“Curiouser and curiouser!” he answers then unanswers.