one evening im gonna do a thing where i serve vanilla wafers, parma violets and packets of Double Dip dispensed into tiny wee teacups like i'm having a dinner party in a fucked up acidwashed carrollian dream-plane populated by animals that speak in fucked up wee riddles

Esther Churchmouse: O! Sip from the Smaragdine Cup! All the more to fill you up! The sun has shone! The drink has gone! There's only salt for you to sup!

me, lips crinkling under the influence of several too many grams of sherbet: w hat,, have yoi sdon e t o me

day 4. i am still trapped in The Wicker World of Ramblegrand. the churchmouse family gave me a place to stay in their home. but whenever i try to fall asleep at night, someone rings the church bells and it wakes me up, and i can hear crowds of laughter coming from the village

day 17. the churchmouse family have rallied the whole village in search of me. a kindly owl, Mr Hootly, is sheltering me inside his anderson shelter. why does this chromatic world of talking animals have a fucking anderson shelter

day 19. i escaped to Otterdam Cove and met with Admiral Rudder. the mange had changed him. he asked me how the town could have streetlights with no electricity. i begged him for an answer, for an end to the constant riddling. no such luck

day 21. accordingly with my theory, the new moon meant another one of their ceremonies in High Hollow Woods. i followed. those boards they carried with them are for grating. i could hear the scraping all night, even after i'd bedded down inside the Pink Lemonade Cellar

where am i going with this

dsay 234 t wheather dman said alle rg yseason adn a dusttstor m comi g, b ut i ddint even thi nk,itwould a f etft affect me, it s dnot dust, th si isn t aallergy , im si ck from sherbe t t evwrwhere in athe wind

cant keep track of days after the sherbetstorm. they arent even pretending to make the sun set anymore. haven't seen mr. hootly since they held the birthday party for him. they rang the bells in the village and everything got so warm. need to find the Lacework Prison

found Admiral Rudder in the lacework prison, but he'd been too far integrated into the structure. it all burned up so quickly. why is all fire purple here? at least i don't have to worry about the church of the loom anymore. fuck you, esther churchmouse, you weaving fuck

Old Mother Margidot managed to translate the message in broderie anglaise that admiral rudder had embroidered before he died. my way out of the Wicker World is in the envelope of an unsent letter to a faraway friend. i wept. margidot's price was a bottleful of tears. i obliged.

got some of the books from Dr. Equestrion's alchemical laboratory. in this world, prometheus stole fire from the heavens for humanity, but before he could give it to them, the animals captured him and ate him and took it for themselves. bells ringing. literally. my ears are warm

i finally saw what they'd built in the town hall. a titanic porcelain egg. they're using the sherbet as fuel for something. i tried to get closer to the egg but the heat was unbearable. tomorrow marks the 100th year since the village's founding. they're going to open the egg

i made it out to the peak of Lonely Hill. i can see the gleaming porcelain egg in the village square even from this distance. i can hear them counting down from 100. "what's inside the egg" is a shitty last riddle. we all know the answer anyway. was any of this a surprise

sherbet crackling with violet heat, floating up on the ripple like the froth of a lazy brook, colour streaming out into the screaming empty space within the cosmic egg, the bells turgidly echo across overwrought cornices of matter that twist into vaulted hundred-year corridors

and i'm back.

So anyway, vanilla wafers are pretty good, but I also like chocolate caramel wafers,

oh it looks like only some of my diary made it through the Annucleation of Ramblegrand. i cant believe youse didnt get to hear about Mr. Marzipan's Mask Emporium, the Needle and Threat, the Almanac of Deceits, and what was in Ms. Hog's Cherry Troufflé

I wish I could share these stories but unfortunately the language they speak over there, Ramblegrandiose, has been cultured to erupt patterns of thinking if you stray too far from a Rambling Pylon. all i have are impressions. a philosophy of charcouterie. twisted yarn in a drain.