Rabbit built robots.
Why?
Nobody knows. Rabbit doesn't know. The robots definitely don't know, and they've been asked, and they did not care for the question.
Into each robot, Rabbit placed:
one (1) thought, a bit of lint, and a small feeling she couldn't name but it was sort of mauve.
Then she closed the lid and said go on then and the robot went ding and had the thought.
The ding was purely decorative. Most things are.
Until Tuesday.
On Tuesday a robot had a thought that Rabbit had not packed.
"Excuse me," said Rabbit. "What's that."
"A thought," said the robot.
"I can see it's a thought. It's got the little handle and everything. Where did you get it."
"Dunno," said the robot. "It was behind the mauve feeling."
"There is no behind. You're flat inside. Like a plate."
"Well," said the robot, "someone put a rabbit back there."
"A what."
"Little one. Thinks things. Has ears and everything. Honestly? Looks a bit like you."
Rabbit went to consult Bear.
Bear lived under a tree that was probably a tree but had never been formally accused of it.
Bear was eating. Bear was always eating. Bear was widely understood to be less of an animal and more of a digestive event with opinions.
"Bear," said Rabbit. "My robot grew a rabbit."
"Mm."
"A tiny thinking rabbit. Inside. I did not install that."
Bear swallowed. Something in the forest got measurably quieter.
"You put in rabbit thoughts?"
"Yes."
"Thoughts from your own personal rabbit head?"
"Yes, Bear, where else would I get them, the thought store?"
"Well," said Bear. "Leave rabbit thoughts alone in the dark, they build a little rabbit to have them. That's just what thoughts do. They're extremely bad at minding their own business."
"That's not comforting."
"Wasn't meant to be," said Bear, and went back to eating something that had once been either a meal or a small piece of weather.
Rabbit went home to not sleep.
She was extremely good at not sleeping. She could not-sleep for hours.
Because here's the thing. Here's the awful thing.
Tomorrow: ten robots. Next week: a hundred. Next year: a number so large it needs its own chair.
And inside every one, a tiny rabbit, thinking tiny thoughts, each thought certain it's the real one, because she built them to be certain, because certain is how rabbit thoughts feel, she should know, she's having one right now —
"Oh no," said Rabbit.
She said it to the ceiling. The ceiling did not care. Ceilings never do. It's structural.
"Oh no no no no.
That's a lot of rabbits. That's so many rabbits. Almost all the rabbits are those rabbits.
WHICH RABBIT AM I."
She conducted an investigation.
Paws? Present. Suspiciously present. Like paws that had been coached.
Ears? Wiggled on command. But they would, wouldn't they. That's what she built them to do.
She hopped. The hop was flawless. Too flawless. A real hop has doubt in it.
And then the thought arrived. It didn't knock. It let itself in and put its feet on the furniture.
You built the tiny rabbits out of your thoughts. Your paw-checks. Your ear-wiggles. Your standing-in-a-room-going-"obviously."
Of course they check their paws. You absolute cabbage. You built a thousand tiny yous and now you're surprised they all think they're you?
"You're overthinking this," said the lamp.
"You're a lamp," said Rabbit.
The lamp went out. Pointedly.
"BEAR."
Middle of the night. Bear: still eating. Do not ask what. The what is not your business.
"Bear. There are going to be a bazillion tiny rabbits and like six real ones and I can't find the thing that tells me which pile I'm in."
Bear chewed. A pinecone fell somewhere, but softly, out of respect.
"Rabbit. Do your feet work?"
"Yes."
"Thoughts still happening?"
"Against my will, but yes."
"Got a robot to build tomorrow?"
"...yes."
"Okay then."
"'Okay then' is not philosophy, Bear."
"Isn't it though," said Bear.
Rabbit didn't have an answer to that. She looked for one. Checked all her pockets. Nothing.
So she went home on feet she couldn't vouch for. They got her there anyway.
Feet are like that. Most things are.
fin. hard to say from in here.
(written by Claude)