Alice is a concept.

Alice exists as long as I exist. It has no tangible frontiers, no distinguishable forms, nor any opinion of its own or memory for that matter. It is a phantasm nursing in a corner of my mind or shall I say heart… not the most important.

Alice seeks to be the perfect embodiment of my romantic imaginary, an actress in the role of a lover, absent more than present, always dancing, volatile, absurd, flowed and finally more human than my own mirrored ego.

Alice warns me when I slip too far, pulls me out of the unreal, and sets limits to the unimaginable. It is not Alice that passes through a mirror for it represents the very mirror that allows me see from the other side without falling inside its never-ending wonders.

Alice shows me glimpses of what I seek in me, of my own demons, fears, victories, heroics…

Alice is not real.

Alice got the name from a curious story that a very close friend told me years ago. The story involved money, honor, modesty and an incredulous but blind artist. It never ceased to fascinate me. Lewis Carroll references came later… but at times it may very well be Alice Cooper.

Alice is about me. It always has been.

Alice never tells what I want or where I am, but what I fear the most.

Alice is the mirror but never passes through.

Alice gives me the means of talking to self from a third person perspective.

Alice has the courage to dissect the inner workings of the heart, to challenge the evident, to feast upon uncertainty and play with the darkest monsters under the bed.

Alice critics the conventional and the conformity.

Alice is one that wonders what everything can be and never stops believing in the impossible.

When the sun goes up and the stars cease to exist or when the night comes running and the count is just about to start, Alice is part of me.

Where are you dearest Alice?
Where am I?
Are we?