The lights come up again, a dusky light of twilight with weeds growing through the stage’s boards.

“Am I strange? I don’t feel Strange. I told you before that reality is…negotiable.”

They appear their in the weeds and offer a wide smile and a small ear. “This has been pleasant. I hope you can find the door soon, my Songbird. Simply search where it isn’t.”

And all at once they seem to melt into the grass, a patch of impossibly colored flowers sprouting far across the stage and into the faceless yet watchful audience.