It was a big rabbit with dark green fur, wearing a woolen Scottish calico bonnet and a pair of pince-nez, looking down at a book of poetry written with strange cursive calligraphy. He runs a small coffee shop and never talks. You may see him on a certain street corner, where the speakers in the store will emit the sound of birdsong; the memories you lost in the bushes can be retrieved, and you can walk into the glass window and buy a ticket from the store to go to the paradise on the other side of the lemon-yellow sky.
Time there is like a frozen lake, and the store is like a corner of a crack in time and space.