“That’s not helpful.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m not a helpful creature,” he purred. “I’m a precise one. There’s a difference. Helpfulness fills the teacup. Precision asks why the teacup exists when your hands would do just fine.” Cheshire Cat Monologue
At first, he was just a grin. A crescent of luminous, disembodied teeth floating six feet off the ground. Then, as if remembering he had an audience, the eyes appeared—two emerald slits that blinked slowly, one after the other, like distant lighthouses.
Alice folded her arms. “I wasn’t aware we had an appointment.” “That’s not helpful
Alice stared at a caterpillar inching across her shoe. “Then tell me something precise.”
“You’re late,” the grin said.
Alice found him on a branch of the old Twistwood Tree, which grew in impossible directions—some limbs pointing down into the earth, others curling into their own knots like thoughts trying to escape.
Alice sat on a toadstool that squeaked politely. “Everyone’s angry today. The Red Queen wanted my head for using the wrong fork. At breakfast.” Helpfulness fills the teacup
