after David Lynch

A year of my life has fallen to the ground.                I            don’t sleep anymore, but spend each night
breeding rabbits instead. Albino bunnies           must       be kept in the dark. They all come out
blank; I become nocturnal. Even the stars            fix           their eyes on my rabbits. Nothing is more
perfect or white. I forget to be sad when               my          nights are filled with rabbity fun. I forget
about the vines choking my heart. Does a          heart           really need tending? Isn’t it enough to have
purpose, like an automaton? I could live                 or           survive off of bunny breath alone, eating
little clouds of fog. Or, at least, I wouldn’t            die.        And in the dark that’s as good as living.

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