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Tuesday, Nov. 30, 2004 - 7:55 p.m.

Editor's note (added 08-09-05): This was the fourth in a six-entry series during which The Measure was taken over by a rabbit.

Ah, me. This bunny has spent the last several days exploring the haze that has crept in at the edges of my mind. It cannot be old age, as I am only six years old, an age considered by most to be somewhat short of prime and quite a distance from ripe. But the haze persists. It is a sort of smearing, as though my memory has been standing in a brisk wind. I am not forgetting things; rather, I am forgetting to remember things.

I have taken to nighttime wandering. I find it dulls the sense of corners left uninspected.

Gerard at night

But let my readers not think I am melancholy, or anything else so maudlin. No, I believe I am merely passing into middle age. The season is mirroring my passage: leaves drop, nights crack with cold, and plants turn their energies underground. (Every November, I, like others of my species, can smell the roots through the dirt. They smell of ale and raspberry jam.)

Moreover, I have happened in my electronic meanderings upon a short tale that not only addresses me by name but also unwittingly narrates my passage. One of my correspondents writes of the tearing down of a rabbit hutch. Yes, the leverethood home of my mind has finally been disassembled, and in its place must come a new cage for the soul. The boot of the universe is on the tufted backside of your narrator. The time has come to build myself a new psychic domicile.

Hence the haze, as they say. Hence the haze.

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