When I was a child, I had an entire series of stuffed bunnies. They were named sequentially as “Bun-Bun”. I’m fairly certain I remember there being a “Bun-bun 7”. (Seriously. Why do people say that young children are creative? )
When I was twelve, my best friend and I had a singularly convoluted plan about how we were somehow going to time-share a bunny.
It was going to be a black, long-haired lop (are there bunnies like that? Probably, but I don’t know if I’ve ever seen one) and we were going to name it Rescai Satine Sable (I think that’s how we spelled it, anyway… (Actually, I’m pretty sure there was an apostrophe in the there somewhere, but I have no idea where it would have gone now. Re’Scai, maybe.)).
We were going to take over the world, and instead of having a cat, we would stroke this black bunny and watch everything burn.
Or something less sociopathic than that. Y’know. Whatever.
Then, I find myself sleeping on the couch in an apartment with a black bunny named Bun-Bun.
I spent about three hours in the backyard enjoying the sun with Bun-Bun and a guitar, because Melbourne likes to give its residents green grass and warm breezes to go with the falling leaves and frigid rain.
It was a beautiful morning.