Tonight I die a rabbit, cornstalks leaping from my skull, alpaca softness rising from my flesh, bones putty in the hands of a capricious child forming a slick Peter with senses picked to cucumbers and carrots and radishes just out of grasp between the concrete sleepers, uncaring of the fox racing along the tracks at the speed of sound.
Watching the train come barreling down the way at a million miles an hour, I felt the sweet vibrations of a monster willing to stop for nothing, cinched open my eyes with thick cinderblocks to stare at the impending lights, wondering if those lights are the eyes of God flying fast for my soul. Is the soul anything but chemicals and synapses within an ugly bag of flesh and meat. Of course I know that surely is the case.
The rabbit falls at the feet of the fox, drunk on the lettuce trapped beneath its paws, calm and unpanicked and so unlike a rabbit that perhaps this rabbit is a man trapped within a furry form, conscious of the inevitability of predator and prey, the death that shall envelope it. Or maybe, as the fox unthinkingly crushes the skull of the rabbit, it is just a rabbit. Just a dead rabbit.