I saw a rabbit on the woodland shortcut to work. It wasn't moving away in fear as I approached. I wondered why. As I got closer I saw its eyes. They were bloody. The rabbit had myxomatosis and it just sat there like a dust track horror show. I fairly ran past it, averting my thankfully healthy eyes.
On the way home from work, I wrote words in my book, thinking of what I could paint on a plate or a mug, because I was going to see her at the pottery shop she worked, and we were going to paint something. I didn't quite think of anything that wouldn't be too pretentious, but in the end we didn't make any pottery anyway.
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