It is midnight and I find you going through the cupboards, a grimace on your face, your hair tied in a long side braid, bright pink lipstick not becoming of the hour, your bones jutting out at jaunty angles, your tiara crooked and rusty. I wont guess what you're doing, because any time I guess with you I wind up in pain. I watch instead.
You seem frustrated, you start slamming the doors.
Its bedtime mouse. You let out a low angry reindeer moan and I suddenly realise that you have no idea who you are, where to call bed, what awaits you and you are looking for clues. Your desperation, your agony, your aggressive hopeless search. You don't want me to know. But you... yeah, you have no idea. Do you really think you will find the answers in the kitchen drawers you stupid wh*re?
We have been here before, your identiyt crisis, fear, silent reckless rage. Sometimes I help you and sometimes I just watch. You eventually wear yourself out and collapse in a heap for lost people, with no more idea of who you are than when you started.
If you knew, would you be happy about it? We think not.