I hav becum limp. I lok up at the dor and se no rabit has trid to get me. Im fre. O, fredum. The stiky on me slips onto the grond. Such a prity red. The red loks beter with the blak. I closd my eys. Fre. Im liftd, but I refus to opn my eys. The kasm agan. I hav com to lov the kasm. Down, down, down. Or up, up, up. A brit lit shod at the botum. So prity.
I tri to get closr, but I only get farthr awey. I se Charlie, and Ms. Murr, and Mr. Frock. Charlie's mouth is ful of stiky. Mr. Frock is still burnin bright. Ms. Murr must have gotton into my paints. She's simply covered in red. I reach out, but only hear crak. Crak. Crack.
Bright white light. I'm here. The bottom. I've succeeded. But wait, white? The white is back? How could this be? Was I never free to begin? Have I always been free? Have the rabbits only been part of my mind? Stiky stiky on my limbs. Stik stik stiky. No, the rabbits are certainly back. Surrounding me once again.
Pins. Nedles. Al I fel ar pins nedles and the stiky. The kasm cals to me. I tri to entr but get puld bak bi the brit wit lit. I tri and tri and tri, but nevr sucseding. The blodi wit lit drags me bak. Angr. Paen. Stiky. Madnes. The wit is al. I tug. Cant. Get. Ot. I yank. Puld bak in plac. I kik. No luk. Let. Me. GO! I am fre. Yes! But my parad is rand wen the wit comes along.
The wit is stron. It flots me abov lik a clod. The pece. The joy. The quiet. The comfort. I let my body be consumed by the white. I am no longer sticky. No longer pins and needles. Just a comfy cozy jacket. Is the white so bad? Have I got them all wrong? Possibly humans like me and myself? They may still be of my mind. Are they? Am I? Am we? Are you?
Surely the white is bad. Baddy bads. The beautiful jacket they gave me is giving me a tight hug. Hugs, hugs, nothing but hugs. And chokes. I have tried to push it away, only to be hugged harder. I see the chasm, endless, every time I try, try, try again. Is the white good? Is it bad? Am I bad? Is the chasm bad? Should I just give up and follow the white? No, no, the white IS bad. Very very bad.
A man stands alone in the pure white. Like a dear friend, he gives me a toothy grin and a spin of his head. His eyes are a lovely shade of red and are quite inviting. Without a word, the white carried him around, and around, and around. Is he the one moving? Am I moving? Are we the only ones still? We must be. I'm moving, so the world must be moving.
No more hugs. There are no more hugs to be given by my beautiful jacket. I shall miss the hugs. My friendly friend tips his hat to me. It's taller than his hat by far. It's a lovely hat. I see something in this sane man's hat. It is... me. The chasm. The black. I have come to love this place an awful bit. Much better than the retched white. Black black black, not white white white. No sticky anywhere.
I see something farther into the chasm. Could it possibly be? Yes, it is. The bright white light. No. No, no, no I hav just escaped. This can't be possibl. The black. Where is the blak? I only want the blak! Ples! Ples! Wy?! Wy must I b her agan?! When. Will. It. End?
