The world is nothing more than a series of events lined up so the sky can darken. If the conclusion defines the purpose, then so the purpose is finality. You thought such things, and because of that, you were found lacking in humanity. Rather, too pure was your untinged human-ness that you thought yourself absent of it altogether. Following the white rabbit to the indefinite end which is the result, and so meeting with your own hatter of a like with you. The end result of logic and reason is no more than a madman's prayer. 

“I saw a cat today.” 

“Sure you did.” 

She wrapped her fingers around the narcissus and plucked it from the bushes of the forest. Her blue dress stained then with the blood of the flower. 

“I did. I saw the cat, and its name was Kaninohara.” 

“Its name was Genjou.” 

“But, that isn’t right. I’m sure the cat was Havershore.” 

“Of the same breed, but different.” 

She gave me the flower.

So you thought things unbefitting. So you took things undeserving. So you plucked things unnerving. You bled them of meaning, and doing so thought yourself a villain, and felt justified at last. But soon you felt even then to be more repugnant a thing yourself. Attribution failed to meet your gaze, and you were a hero, but still found no cause, and so were nothing again. Happiness is knowing you are yourself, not what you will be, or what you once were. Then, you are the future you at once, and that past you evermore. Resorting. 

“I do want the flowers.” 

“You don’t, and you do.” 

She tied her blonde hair back into twin tails, each with a band of rosemary, which then looked to you as though it were holly. Still you falsify, and again you see Oleander vine, and find repulse, but draw. A black cat curls its tail around her bare legs, before becoming no more than mist itself, and you had never seen a cat before. Yet the cats name was Nicholas, and the cats form was Sonochihama. 

She found you within a shell of something not yourself. She was unable to find you. 

“You aren’t.” 

“I am.” 

“Are?”

“Was, will be. Am.” 

The end result of insanity is no more than oracle telling of the reason. Neither fulfilling of the purpose. Neither true, neither false. You see the sun and you see the moon. And the moon and the sun are the flowers and the flowers are narcissus petals falling to the earth from thin porcelain fingers of a girl who looks like a rabbit. Her ears are blinding and her eyes are blue. She gives you the flower and takes it from you, and you are her and you see her and she is not what you are. She is apart. 

“Happiness is knowing you are yourself.” 

She knows the result, but the result is an event in the sequence. She knows the sequence, and you know the result, and the result is the sequence itself, and the sun is the endpoint of the prayer, and in the end there is no you. It was for nothing, but you said it was something, and you lied and you made truths entirely to yourself. You redefined terms until the meanings were no longer definable. You created her, and she created the you that you are, and through her you created a her that you thought was true, and she lied, and you were true. In truth, and in lies, and in madness, there was something which could be called a flower. 

And its name was Narcissus.