I don’t remember much about last night’s dream aside from a rather scary rabbit. It was not violent like the one that thrashed the Knights of the Round Table or the one that subdued Jimmy Carter. It was passive, subtly menacing like the Black Rabbit of Inle. That guy scared the bejeezus out of me when I first saw him years ago, and even now gives me the creeps.

I was someone else in the dream: a father. I was in a kitchen or a utility room. The Rabbit had been imperiling my children, but I don’t know how or why. I was trying to kill it by jamming some sort of tool-turned-weapon, probably a screwdriver, into its flank.

While an observer might have thought I was being cruel to this poor little bunny—which certainly looked dead—The Rabbit was, in reality, toying with me and torturing me.

In my head, I could hear his disembodied voice chuckling at me as I futilely, desperately twisted the screwdriver in its gut. His voice was quiet and controlled; he sounded like FrankLangella in the Red Dragon outtakes. “I can stop your heart whenever I wish”—and my heart would miss a few beats. “I can crush your skull”—and my skull would start to crack.

I don’t remember much else, aside from the acute awareness that I was about to die at the hands of a limp, bloody rabbit, and that it was going to get my children. Oh well.

…

On a happier note, it’s good to be back in Jacksonville, albeit briefly. I am at long last reunited with my beloved chicken biscuits from Chick-Fil-A.