The sun dared to peek through the canopy, sending a few vagrant stripes of light across the sleeping fellow, languidly sprawled across the top of an oddly-sized mushroom. He was in a semi-fetal position, knees brought up partially toward his torso, one arm tucked around a small, tattered, stuffed bear. The other arm dangled outward, the bony hand hanging just off the edge of the mushroom. With a snort, the man shifted, let out a wheezing cough, and then drew his legs closer to his abdomen, shoving a thumb into his mouth with a loud sucking noise soon following.

Pathetic, really, he was, lying there oblivious to the goings-on of Wonderland Woods. And, to be honest, that’s exactly how he liked it. He cared not for the mechanics of the monarchy, nor the frivolous antics of the other creatures so choosing to habituate themselves in this realm, surreal and morbid though it is. However, as your typical, hypocritical addict, he stayed here, as well, often snickering to himself amidst the hazy fog of a hookah’s smoke, thinking himself a fine smart chap amidst all the chaos. But he was just that – a hypocritical addict; awfully fond of his opium and hookah, awfully fond of judgments and labels.

Oh, not to mention the alcohol he’d recently managed to get his skinny fingers onto. He adored the booze, in all its glory. It, along with his other habitual friends, helped him eke by in this life. To be honest, he didn’t really want to be here all that much longer anyways. With all due respect to the creator of his life, he couldn’t wait to pass onto the next phase of his meager existence – he wanted to fly. But, as humans are without actually wings or the like, he’s stuck in his skin – gaunt and stretched as it is – but embraced his hallucinatory dreams. After all, the people he saw in them actually accepted him; the purple elephants and dancing flowers were just bonuses.

A butterfly floated down and through the trees, opting to land on the fellow’s cheek, its tiny legs the barest of brushes beside the gnarled tangles of his hair. However, fatigue had passed, and he drowsily opened his eyes, peering at the miniature beast with his grey-hazel eyes, immediately loathing it and its freedom of flight. With a disgusted wrinkle of his nose, he uncurled, pushed himself to a seat, and watched with satisfaction as the insect darted away, its colorful wings flapping lazily to loft itself up and away from the man. His lips curled into a half-smirk, and he then lifted a hand to push a few unruly sable bangs from his brow. Discarding the smirk for a decidedly nasty frown, he squeezed his eyes shut and stood, as if by hiding the multi-colored irises he might fend off the headache that threatened his temples.

His stomach growled ferociously, and a grimace contorted his emaciated features. He had neither food nor drink to sustain him, and, by the cards, he had the Munchies. Tugging on his vest, he straightened, and turned around to face the shabby lean-to he called his current home.  A slim trail of smoke wafted upward from the diminishing fire he’d set up earlier that day, the silken entrails curling about a branch a few feet above. Sinking his bare toes into the soft underbrush of the Wonderland Woods, he stretches his bony limbs high above his head, yawned, then set about hunting for something to abate his appetite.