1

Two rabbits were chased by a fox, of all the crazy shit in the world, and the fox kept
up the chase, circling the world until the world caught up with them in some bro-
ken-down downtown metropolis. Inside the warren, the rabbits think fast. Pip
touches the only other rabbit listening.

Pip: We're doomed.
Flip: We're not.
Pip: Are you sure?
Flip: Yes. Here, hide inside me.

This is the story of Pip and Flip, the bunny twins. We say that once there were two
and now there is only one. When the fox sees Pip run past, he won't know that the
one is inside the other. He'll think, Well, there's at least one more rabbit in that war-
ren. But no one's left. You know this and I know this. Together we trace out the trail
away from doom. There isn't hope, there is a trail. I follow you.

When a rabbit meets a rabbit, one takes the time to tell the other this story. The
rabbits then agree the must be two rabbits, at least two rabbits, and that in turn
there is a trace. I am only repeating what I heard. This is one love. There are many
loves but only one war.

Bird 1: This is the same story.
Bird 2: No, this is the rest of the story.
2

Let me tell you a story about war. A man found his life to be empty. He began to
study Latin. Latin was difficult for the man to understand. I will study Latin, even
though it is difficult, said the man. Yes, even if it is difficult.

Let me tell you a story about war. A man had a dream about a woman and then he
met her. The man had a dream about the woman's former lover. the former lover
was sad, he wanted to fight. The man said to the woman, I will have to comfort your
former lover or I will always be fighting him in my dreams. Yes, said the woman. You
will need to comfort him, or we will never be finished with this.

Let me tell you a story about war. A fisherman's son and his dead brother sat on the shore. That is my country and this is your country and the line in the sand is the
threshold between them, said the dead brother. Yes, said the fisherman's son.

You cannot have an opponent if you keep saying yes.

Bird 1: This is the wrong story.
Bird 2: All stories are the wrong story when you are impatient.

Let me tell you a story about war. A man says to another man, Can I tell you some-
thing? The other man says, No. A man says to another man, There is something I
have to tell you. No, says the other man. No, you don't.

Bird 1: Now we are getting somewhere.
Bird 2: Yes, yes we are.
3

Let me tell you a story about war:

A boy spills a glass of milk and his father picks him up by the back of the shirt and
throws him against the wall. You killed my wife and you can't even keep a glass on the
table. The wife had died of sadness, by her own hand. The father walks out of the
room and the room is almost empty.

The road outside the house lies flat on the ground. The ground surrenders.

The father works late. The dead wife's hand makes fish-sticks while the boy sits in
the corner where he fell. The fish in the fish-sticks think to themselves, This is not
what we meant to be.

Its roots in the ground and its branches in the air, a tree is pulled in both directions.

The wife has a dead hand. This is earlier. She is living and her dead hand feeds her
pills that don't work. The boy sleeps on the roof or falls out of trees. The father
works late. The wife looks out the window and thinks, Not this.

The boy is a bird, bad bird. He falls out of trees.

4

Let me tell you a story about war:
The fisherman's son serves drinks to sailors. he stands behind the bar. He listens
closely for news of his dead brother. The sailors are thirsty. They drink rum. Tell me
a story, says the fisherman's son.
There is nothing interesting about the sea. The water is flat, flat and calm, it seems a
sheet of glass. You look at it, the more you look at it the more you feel like you are look-
ing into your own head, which is a stranger's head, empty. We listen to the sound with
our equipment. I have learned to understand this sound. When you look there is noth-
ing, with the equipment there is sound. We sit in rows and listen down the tunnels for
the song. The song has red words in it. We write the down on sheets of paper and pass
them along. Sometimes there is noise and sometimes song and often there is silence,
the long tunnel, the sea like glass....

You are a translator, says the fisherman's son.
Yes, says the sailor.
And the sound is the voice of the enemy.
Yes, yes it is.

5

Let me tell you a story about love:

She had a soft voice and strong hands. When she sang she would seem too large
for the room and she would play guitar and sing, which would make his chest feel
huge. Sometimes he would touch her knee and smile. Sometimes, she would touch
his face and close her eyes.

6

The fisherman's son is a spy, a good one. Spies like documents. Spies wander and
roam, scanning the information.

A man does work. A machine can, too. Power of agency, agent of what? This is a
question we might ask.

What is a document before it's a document? A noise in your head, a backstory.
What makes a thing yours to steal or sell or trade? That is a question, good ques-
tion.

Spies are pollinators. They take the bits from here and there to make a new thing
grow. Does it matter to which team this new thing belongs?

7

Fox rounds the warren but there are no bunnies, jumps up with claws but there are
no bunnies, moves down the road but there are no bunnies. There are no bunnies.
He chases a bird instead. All wars are the same war. The bird flies away.

8

The fisherman's son knows nothing worth stealing. Perhaps, perhaps.

He once put a cat in a cardboard box, but she got out anyway. He once had a
brother he lost to the sea. Brother, dead brother, who speaks to him in dreams.
These are a few things worth saying.

He knows that when you snap a mast it's time to get a set of oars or learn how to
breathe underwater. Rely on one thing too long and when it disappears and you
have nothing--well, that's just bad planning. It's embarrassing, to think it could
never happen. It happens.

You cannot get in the way of anyone's path to God. You can, but it does no good.
Every spy knows this. Some say God is where we put our sorrow. God says, Which
one of you fuckers can get to me first?

9

The spies meet at the chain-link fence and tell each other stories. A whisper sys-
tem, a level of honesty. To testify against yourself is an interesting thing, a sacrifice.
Some people do it. Some people find money in the street, but you can't rely on it.
The fisherman's son is at the fence, waiting to see if he is useful.

You cannot get in the way of anyone's path to happiness, it also does no good. The
problem is figuring out which part is the path and which part it the happiness.

It's a blessing: every day someone shows up at the fence. And when no one shows
up, a different kind of blessing. In the wrong light anyone can look like a darkness.