Just disappears so fast, a rabbit in the hat. Snatched from rolling farmlands, a country mousetrap. Into the fumbling hands of a magician who thinks he is as deft as they come. So much up his sleeves. Some good, like shimmering ballons waiting to take the shape of a giraffe, or puppy, or at least the shape of a way out of here. Or the kisses on the heart he uses to wow audiences into ignoring his fumbling hands. Some bad, like dreams of inescapable boxes, dreams of forgetting to hide the key in one of the pockets he's carved into his own flesh, dreams of your way out.

That lovely world inside the hat no longer holds an opportunity or the smiles of audiences across the land, it's just not cool enough in there, stifling. The magician laments the loss of his long-eared partner, his magic companion now left to it's own devices has begun to forget the stage and the routines of the show. The rabbit's sleeves are also full, but they are full of mystery, silence, and it's own lucky feet. Surrounded by worms and parasites, a mundane cocoon, no magic can touch the pupa. The gold hidden beneath the magician's heart peels away, the prestige, the big reveal, is the cold, rusted iron underneath