With a sort of mental squint.

Death is always sad, I suppose, to us who look forward to it: I expect it will seem very different when we can look back upon it.

For, you see, so many out-of-the-way things had happened lately, that Alice had begun to think that very few things indeed were really impossible.

In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again.

I'm not strange, weird, off, nor crazy, my reality is just different from yours.

In a wonderland they lie, dreaming as the days go by

May we not then sometimes define insanity as an inability to distinguish which is the waking and which the sleeping life? We often dream without the least suspicion of unreality: 'Sleep hath its own world', and it is often as lifelike as the other.