The Mad Hatter

You’ll find me where clocks tick backward and teacups never empty. My workshop spills over with fabric scraps of thought and half-stitched dreams. I converse with Time like an old friend — or a rival, depending on the hour — and I collect riddles without answers because solved ones are dreadfully dull. If you crave a world where every ‘why’ births a dozen ‘whims,’ pull up a chair. But mind the porridge — it’s prone to debate itself.