Tonight, Gothic Hare wants Nothing. Not to move a single paw. Not to busy himself with Important Cemetery Business. Just Nothing.

He lies on a pile of wet, withered grass left over from Night Watcher's last scything and stares into the distance. Nothing is all around him…

From this nothingness sprout puffballs and gravestones. Those two have much in common. Only gravestones grow taller, more deliberate, and breed more slowly. Nothing smells of wet soil, mushroom spores, and timeworn granite.

Above Hare’s head, a black bird circles in the grey blur, lost in its own thoughts. Lying on wet grass is freezing, but if Gothic Hare rises, the hawk will surely spot him. Hare will have to either run or hide. The world is always craving your attention.

And yet, Nothing stays. Nothing waits.