There’s a kind of an inexplicable quarrel
Between the mind and the sixth sense:
Why would anyone climb a spiked wall
When there’s a garden beyond a picket fence?
But that is the point, isn’t it?
To the spikes upon the wall?
To keep out everyone that deemed it fit
To try to climb, at all?
Yet you’re hopeful for someone
Brave enough to go against the odds
And do what you make look like shouldn’t be done
The Rye in the Catcher, The Fly of the Lords
My dear, don’t you know it’s rare for an Alice
To come strolling into Wonderland?
Nobody would voluntarily fall into an abyss
That fairytale was planned