Into the Vortex

I feel lost. Not Lost lost, mind. Just lost*. This magic box is going nuts. I can’t remember seeing so many things “clang!” in one room before, and I swear half of it is made out of wood.

Rabbit man likes chewitts too, it seems. There’s wrappers everywhere. My pockets are bursting with the damn things. Why can’t he afford a bin? I can’t see one anywhere, and there’s at least three or four separate dimensions cramming for room in this place. Rabbit man flits between them like a man going Christmas shopping; seemingly without direction and with only the vaguest sense of purpose.

I don’t know what I can do to help. That’s why I chose to sit by the door, like a dog, and wait until it’s time to go out for a walk. That seems to work, for now. It’s still not quite perfect- rabbit man keeps throwing chewitts at me. But what can I do? I’m hungry. I’m not going to ask him to stop.

It’s a weird place to be, this magic box. I feel like Time itself is surrounding it. Don’t ask how that feels, exactly. The closest alternative I can think of is the feeling of being submerged in hot water. Or a hot whirlpool. The most you can do is hold onto something, like the floor, and try not to imagine what’ll happen if you suddenly let go.

Occasionally I hear voices, too, from the other side of the door. I don’t want to know where they’re from. They could be anything. Imagine if they spoke Welsh. That’d be one heck of an irony**.

I hope we’re heading somewhere good. I’ve yet to discern our target destination from the rabbit man, based on body language alone, but judging by the way he fidgets I’m guessing it must be Rabbit Land.

That or he’s ran out of chewitts.

W

*For the uninitiated, Lost lost is when you wake up on a desert island and someone yells “Are you alright brother?” in a pseudo-Scottish accent. You faintly remember a plane crash, but you can’t be sure if that was tomorrow or yesterday.

**Considering half of every sign in Wales is in English (and most of the Welsh speak English) learning Welsh as a language, to an outsider, is rather like growing coconuts as a source of food.

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