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I've taken up running again. I used to, long ago, take quite a bit of enjoyment from athletics. I get a drink and take off. There's no planning in a course -- only moment. The forest is full of obstacles, to a runner of fine enough quality. Leap over stumps, zig-zag between trees. Follow paths of light. It's effortlessly beautiful, easy in its motion. There's no thought beyond the route, or of thinking about the route -- it grows recursive, self-inflicting, spiraling and devouring inward, like a person seeing through the eyes of their own reflection.

Eventually, I come and stop by Da Drinkplaats. I've not much mood to be a bunny or a dove when I'm alone (except, perhaps, the shrug on the illusion that I am not myself), but I love it. This and the crying idol are all the sacred waters from which I wish to drink. The water is clean and pops with magic, sending sparks, almost painful and shockingly clean, in the mouth. It is one of the most beautiful places in the forest, and certainly, it is the only place in the inhabited Forest where the rabbits come out. They are so still, and quiet, their noses trembling in the air. Perhaps they realize how powerful and clean the fountain is -- perhaps they love it because, as I like to suspect, they are not all they seem. Or perhaps they love it like I love pretty words, odd metaphors and sweet similes, stories and poems and songs -- they love it because it is more magical than them, and better, and more noble, and because of this, they cannot be torn away. (...I wonder if they love it like I love, loved, will still love, her -- but then I realize I have thought about it, and besides which, thought the same sentence twice in a row.)

I meet a few strangers: cuddling friends, a deer having a snack, an admirer of the fountain...