The Hare keeps a small church by his bedside, and awoke with the tolling of its bells. “Breakfast”, he thought. Everything starts with Breakfast, perhaps a cup of coffee.
But first, he felt compelled to stay in bed a moment, to peer through the church’s stained-glass window, which depicted a woman admiring herself and a unicorn, idly in a mirror.
In the church, the Hare spied a priest arguing with an esteemed member of the congregration over the meaning of a specific word of Scripture. The word was “Breakfast”.
The Hare was hungry, and prepared the eggs he had been storing in his pocket. The eggs, cracked over the heads of newborn children, were to be served with the turmoil of their creation, kidnapping, and subsequent consumption. The eggs were pain of course, but a quiet pain, of the not-too-distracting sort, which can be endured over breakfast.
As part of The Hare’s breakfast ritual, he rolled up the newspaper, and ate it.
He then checked his watch, shampooed his hair, took of his clothes and said hello to an unsuspecting new world.