The yellow king is nothing but a cloaked man compared to the madness that lies within the mortal head, multiple billions dream voices yelling, screaming things that make sense not quite there.

Half again the sum of it's components my visage and persona appear quite calm, but for without my self ignorance my 4th eye inside the third screams it's pain. Sorrow, weary, ever changing ignorance as every minute there's something new to not know.

For what is life but ever changing madness? Things, variables, nouns without names that spin in cycles unmerciful changing into something not before imagined by mankind. But then by people who are outside the reality of others for their imagination puts them on a level of being that allows them to glimpse the madness and perhaps...(perchance?) to recall, to remember a piece or a bit that nobody before has seen. A chaos, parallel to reality that has all thoughts that have ever been and ever will.

And nothing is original.

All has been drempt, naught but one man must steal from the dream to create, to force upon this reality the being of another alien thing so that invention may occur.

But then? What happens if the turmoil is glimpsed within the 4th eye and the 3rd cannot understand? What if but a flicker is too little or seen more than enough one has? Fire, unconstrained, hurts does it not? What should happen if the chaos pours forth in an unknown rage? The cloak! A madness born hidden beneath the color yellow!

Tripping, tumbling thought all among the pages of a book. Screams reality! Simply; why? As sentences pour forth with words of entropy, not making as once was to be intended but then to create, to turn reasonable thought into something else, but perhaps from inane focus born? Who knows? Perhaps the hatter with his beaver fur trappings and liquid metal cleaner? Nay, for his sanity is lost by causation, not by plausation.

Plausation?

A word, a thing? A thought! Not as yet so much as born from the chaos bundle it is not!

Chickens run, strange terror seeps, as sheep lie...(lye?)...eroding in sleep. But again? Chaos, unmeasured into the eyes of dreamers creep. Waking world yet unknown, force of personality alone! This, fearful pointlessness might have something to do? Pointless...but to who? The cloaked yellow lord who's pages do hold nothing more than an empty hand? See it, folk may have and stumble drunkenly through reality and shall be it known but to another for they have the rant of summer. Winter court does not envy summer nights chaotic frenzy. Even the fey know not to stray into the chaos of mortal thread.

But Mankind is weak
stupid
brave

we must...peek...

ROLL the dice!