A gasp escaped her lips as she took a step.

It was colorful, yet dull. Details overlapped by streams of colors and light bent to the artists will.

Overwhelmed and claustrophobic, she tried to take a step back was blocked by a door.

"Well?" He asked, annoyed. "Would you like a hand-written invitation?"

"No, sir." She muttered, quietly.

He led her along the twist and curves. Butterflies glanced at her with distaste, caterpillars frowned.

Whispers and gossip surrounded her. Her nostrils filled with the floral smell and a smoke.

Their eyes asked if she was sober, they asked if she was happy, and they asked if she was seeing the world as it really was.

The gossip and whispers told her that they didn't see the world as she did with her drab clothes and scared eyes.

The outside would would never except her like this. They told her she was crazy and mental.

"You're not sick." He turned around and frowned at her. "If that's what you're thinking."

She didn't answer, drowning in her thoughts.

Everything was loud. Everything was too much. She couldn't think straight.

But she didn't mind, for it distracted her from her worries.

He led her to a meadow of a long dinner table stacked with cakes and tea cup with small designs.

And in the end of the table was a man. On his head was a hat, stacked up so tall that she was surprised that it didn't tip over.

A dry smile on his face as he looked over her with pity.

"It's okay, dear." He told her. "You're not crazy when you're with us."