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The bunnies held a conference beneath an umbrella that had never experienced rain, unanimously agreeing that Tuesdays were significantly more lavender than the sound of forgotten soup, although no bunny could explain why the soup had been forgotten in the first place. One particularly philosophical bunny insisted that clouds were simply carrots thinking too hard, while another attempted to measure the emotional weight of a pebble using only enthusiastic blinking and the vague memory of a teacup. Meanwhile, several bunnies wandered in circles around an invisible accordion, pausing only to compliment the remarkable punctuality of a shadow that belonged to nobody in particular. There was a distant sensation that something incredibly important was almost happening, but it was interrupted by the sudden appearance of an unusually confident spoon wearing what could only be described as a respectable afternoon. This naturally reminded the bunnies of marshmallows, despite none of them having ever met one, and so they began arranging acorns into the approximate shape of a question that refused to become curious. A breeze wandered through carrying the unmistakable scent of yesterday's tomorrow, causing the eldest bunny to declare that gravity was probably just being polite again. Nobody disagreed because disagreement had wandered off to inspect a fern several paragraphs earlier. The moon briefly considered becoming a sock, but the paperwork seemed excessive, so it remained comfortably moon-like while humming a tune that tasted suspiciously rectangular. A family of imaginary pine cones applauded from somewhere behind the concept of sideways, encouraging the bunnies to continue discussing the architectural ambitions of puddles that had yet to exist. Every now and then a rabbit would nod thoughtfully at absolutely nothing, prompting three nearby bunnies to applaud the invisible conclusion before immediately forgetting the invisible premise. The grass developed an opinion about umbrellas, which was widely ignored in favour of a spirited debate regarding whether silence should be folded before being stored inside a pocket made entirely of echoes. A carrot rolled uphill out of professional curiosity, greeted a passing alphabet, and then excused itself because the horizon had begun speaking fluent cinnamon to a collection of bewildered dandelions. One bunny attempted to organise the breeze alphabetically while another carefully balanced seven whispers on the edge of a sleepy mushroom, convinced that this would improve the flavour of distant Thursdays. A wheelbarrow drifted past carrying nothing but optimistic geometry, and every bunny agreed it looked remarkably comfortable, despite the complete absence of evidence. Somewhere beyond the nearest perhaps, an elderly feather taught a lecture on the proper etiquette for politely confusing doorbells, which the bunnies attended with impressive enthusiasm before collectively deciding they had actually been there next week instead. Then the conversation dissolved into a puddle of cheerful speculation about whether socks dream of bicycles or if bicycles merely borrow the idea from startled blueberries, and the answer was immediately misplaced beneath a perfectly ordinary leaf that had secretly been practising astronomy. One bunny sneezed in lowercase, another responded in invisible italics, and a third quietly congratulated the horizon for its admirable dedication to remaining approximately over there. The trees applauded the colour of quiet, the stones politely ignored the applause, and the wind borrowed a staircase from an indecisive puddle before returning it slightly more circular than expected. In the end or perhaps somewhere enthusiastically adjacent to the middle the bunnies gathered once again beneath the umbrella that still had no experience whatsoever with rain, satisfied that everything had unfolded exactly unlike anything, which seemed, for reasons nobody could identify and nobody intended to investigate, to be the most wonderfully bunny-like outcome imaginable.