Mad Men

I don't know how well you understand madness. If you think it's emotion, like anger. If you think it's insanity. If you know what it looks like, feels like, tastes like. I don't know if you know you know someone who is mad, or if you don't.

But I'll tell you a secret.

I know a mad man. He lives in the stars and carries a wand made of ash. He dreams in black and green, wears a top hat and shaves five times a day. He stands on the corner by the stop sign when little children cross the street, singing Twiddle-twiddle, tweedle dum-dee-dee.

And he knows secrets about the World That No One Else Can See. He tells me those secrets some times, and sometimes not. I'm not young enough to learn, he likes to say. Not like Alice. Not as young as the pretty blonde kindergartner who waits for her mother by the stop sign at two-thirty pm every day on the corner of Broad and Main, with the man I know is mad.