Honyock is a gopher hole. A gopher hole deemed rabbit hole. “Do rabbits even have holes?” you ask with brimming curiosity and a symbolic head scratch. Its a good question. We’ve never seen a rabbit in a hole. You can only remember seeing them in cages at friends houses and pet stores. Hey, we don’t blame you. Until recently, more recently than we would like to admit, when we heard ‘chicken’ we could only think of little pink lumps of flesh on foam wrapped in plastic. A courtesy paid to other animals in naming their meat separate from their being (porkbeefbaconbalogne) was not paid to chickens. Or lambs for that matter. And whats up with “seafood”. I mean hey, we don’t want to rain on a parade, but there is some complex ecology not being taken into consideration. “Oh, who cares” you say. And you’re not utterly right, but you don’t think you aren’t. Something deep inside leaves you desiring something. You notice that You have been sitting around all day and the quintessential early morning to noon period where it makes sense to do something productive has escaped you. You start to think your life is in shambles but cant think of a single misplaced tile. Resolute, you decide that you must find something wrong. Its time to go outside. Yes! Thats it! Outside! There are plenty of things wrong outside. Okay you gather your things to prepare for a trek. You start taking everything you could possibly read in case you get in a certain genre based mood. Two more hours pass while you chase the thought that your forgetting something around the apartment. Oh god! Get out! Quick! Okay! You’re outside. Its a little warm out. Good thing your under-overdressed. People pass you. Adults that dress their age make you feel like a child. You pretend that you are going for a swim. Yes that explains it. You have a destination in mind at first but when you reach the rose garden it doesn’t feel like enough. Walking along the path you see a gopher hole and think about starting that writing thing you used to do. The stream of consciousness one. You decide against this. Walking along you find yourself in the wind of a neighborhood. Its ritsy. You see an old red jeep in a garage and think “cool!” and then see a deers head mounted on a placard and start thinking about animals you have killed. Theres a woman doing some gardening and she says hello. You wave back and say good-morning. You think you see a glimmer of destruction in her eyes but its probably just her pity reflecting in your pool of shame like the sunlight refracting in her hose-rainbow. You ask her “have you ever been in love?”. She says, “Of course. Have a nice day!” and waters her drought safe flowers. Walking onward you come upon a house being painted. A man in painters white-and-stained clothing is turning the pressure for the paint guns on in the van and walks in front of you. You smile but he ignores you. And you want to cry because you once new a painter and can see him in this man. You suddenly see his life flash before your eyes. His blackened hands reaching for something to drink. Lips never quenched, forever parched by the scorch of a sun that always hangs inside himself. His body but a lampshade. His fire being blotted out by constant inhalation and consumption. You think of the gardeners face. Her expression held extreme depth behind a mask. In her eyes you saw true love as a distant memory. Like a flag waving in ceaseless wind on a baron hill. She starts to sing in your mothers voice. Her eyelids convey an ease. You forget that you’re walking and fall down a large rabbit hole as thousands of gallons of water and white paint come cascading after you.