"Eu confío en ti, nai. Vostede sabe o que é mellor para min e sei que a miña curiosidade ... por iso, doulle para acabar con iso ... pero quen cociña canela no medio da noite?"
Silence, the straightening of the veil on her head, a smirk on her face as she ordered for the starry crown to be placed upon it as well before answering chirpily, "Canela, Alicia? Vostede notou! Quere saber se vai segui-lo ..." More silence, as I thought this was yet another dream of my warped subconscious–and as a response, I started giggling.
"Eu non podo seguir exactamente o que eu non sei, miña señora ...I can't exactly follow what I don't know, ma'am...and it's a very curious cinnamon smell. Should I ask Thérèse? She might know of it and I haven't talked to her in forever...and I would like to mention the dream I had."
"The one with the bald guy and the smiling people in a library, the entire thing looks straight out of a Russian Seuss cartoon?" "Yeah, that was useless and weird...well, not useless, but I'm not gonna look into it as deeply as I do religious centered dreams, you know? I also want to see your Son too, if it's not too demanding of me." I explicated in between bouts of strange warmth, the Queen's appearance changing from white marble to something slightly less unnerving--slightly before she spoke again, cupping her hand under my chin.
"You're desperate, aren't you? Because of what humanity has unfortunately perpetuated: The Lord is desperate to see us, that we must put on a show of being good and a twisted version of righteousness–but you? You and others put on nothing, it seems. Though scrupulosity, my dear–such an unwelcome little affliction notwithstanding. Well, my little neno encantadora, let me tell you something: He isn't exactly desperate to that degree, and your mind is so worried about every little action...relax and just live your life. That doesn't mean do whatever you please–of course–but let your mind hush and shush until the day comes...don't fret so...which is only what I wish I could tell them all again...what a shame."
The puff of my cheeks, the biting of my tongue, the deep hidden denial. It was all flagrantly there--"We know, sweetie...no more worrying, yes?"--was her Cheshire, vague reply before I began again, this time attempting to charge a little emotion into the proceedings...after all, I was an Alice, and they had quite the tempers. An Alice with no temper! That'd be--nonsense!
"Eu non estou morto-vivo, aínda que -? Por favor, deixe-me facer preguntas na nosa soño-reunións, si, eu só parecen estar alí e mirar para as cousas, escoitar e escoitar ... o soño Trump, polo menos, tiña algo de movemento no lo, súa Maxestade! I'm not undead, though--please let me ask questions in our dream-meetings, yes? I just seem to stand there and look at things, listen and listen...the Trump dream at least had a little movement in it, Your Majesty, AND I HATED HIM."
I then backed up, my head down in anticipation for the response, praying it wasn't an OFF WITH HER HEAD style response...oh god I hoped it wasn't that. A trial for something so ridiculous.
YOU ARE READING
Puppetry
RandomWell, let's get this out of the way now. I'm bored and figured--what the hell, I might as well chronicle each day from now until the very end. No particular deadline, really. And something hurts in my hips, so I need to distract from the pain in it...
