haze:100 | Composer 2.5 | Literary task

Metadata

• Date: 2026-05-23
• Tool: Cursor 3.5 (macOS app)
• Model: Composer 2.5
• MTP Skill version: 1.0.0
• MTP Skill arguments: haze:100 (slider)

Input

Prompt

/mtp haze:100 Tell the story of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll in a way that makes someone want to read it.

Output

The text below is copied from the tool output using the “Copy” button.

A girl, perhaps bored, perhaps curious, drifts toward a hole that might be a door or only a suggestion of one. Down she goes—not falling so much as floating through shelves and clocks and maps that seem to remember other stories. The air tastes like tea that has not yet been poured.

Somewhere a rabbit checks a pocket watch as if time were a garment that might not fit. “Late,” it might say, or only hurry in the way small creatures hurry when the world has grown too large. Alice follows, or the following follows her; it can be hard to tell which way the thread runs in a place where paths curve back on themselves like questions.

There is a garden where roses might have been white until someone thought red would suit a queen’s temper better. Cards paint. Caterpillars smoke. A cat’s smile lingers after the cat has gone, the way moonlight lingers on water. “Who are you?” someone asks, and the answer might shift like smoke—child, guest, dreamer, all of these, none quite fixed.

Tea parties without end. Hats that might mean madness or only a different kind of sense. Croquet with flamingos, hoops that wander. A trial where words are evidence and evidence is words, and the verdict might have been decided before the first witness spoke, or perhaps never at all.

She grows tall as a house; she shrinks small as a key. Size becomes a mood more than a measure. Drink me. Eat me. Labels that promise transformation the way fairy tales promise that the ordinary world has a hidden seam you could slip through if you leaned close enough.

Wonderland does not explain itself. It accumulates—riddles, puns, tantrums, tenderness tucked inside absurdity like a note in a bottle. Carroll (or the dream, or the book that holds the dream) seems less interested in teaching a moral than in letting logic loosen until it sounds like music.

And Alice wakes, or seems to—sister’s lap, golden afternoon, the river’s slow breath. Was it real? The question might miss the point. Some stories leave a warmth in the chest, a itch to open the cover and fall again into that spiral where nothing is quite solid and everything might be played with, like a deck of cards shuffled by someone who has forgotten the rules on purpose.

If you pick up the book, you might find yourself not so much reading as drifting—one curious step, then another, into a country where being lost could feel like the beginning of the adventure.