The days, how they pass with silent footsteps,
A rabbit in the snow, they blend together,
It seems as the prints are left behind in the powder snow,
they are erased from knowledge within the hour.
Where does the rabbit go? Does the rabbit himself know?
Or does he wonder about to-and-fro,
searching for an end just as I search for him?
-under the influence of classical music-
Vague and context-less…
I love it! You could be the next Fitzgerald! How post-modern!