Bunny does not want to kill herself. She does not want to die. It’s that she no longer wants to live. To not want to be alive is not the same thing as wanting to be dead.

People who are clinically depressed have their own disturbances with food. For some, it’s as if hand to mouth were an involuntary reflex, as if food could fill the abyss. Which it can’t, and they grow fat, which does nothing good for their state of mind. The others are rarely hungry or else they are never hungry. They emaciate, become insubstantial, a manifestation of the wish to disappear. Bunny is one of the thin ones.

People who are not easy to like, they have feelings just like nice people do.

Fun not shared is not fun. You can derive great pleasure alone, enjoy yourself enormously, experience bliss, but fun requires someone else, like a friend or a dog.

But surely he had told that story before. All of us, we tell our stories over and over again. Not in the same way and we don’t always recognize them for what they are, the same way we don’t always recognize that all creation myths boil down to God and man and a thunderstorm.

Lots of things should be, but aren’t.

Maybe it has something to do with the pull of the moon because, despite the statistical improbability of any two people meeting up, it is inevitable that the tremulous are drawn to the languished, the sick to the broken, the forsaken to the sad, every pot has its cover, and the funny to the funny ones, too.

But there are no happy endings unless we cut the story short, and as far as I know, there are no rules of etiquette to a miracle, either.

A kind of happy that, if manifested into tangibility, would’ve taken the shape of a daisy.

I probably said something about being happy for him, because I was happy for him, although to be happy for someone else doesn’t mean that you are happy for yourself.