a rabbit and a hat

he wished for his pen to run out, but it didn't, so he kept on writing. every sentence embarrassed him. he knew he would read over what he had written once and then destroy it. he didn't want anyone to read it. he didn't want anyone to know how much he liked magic. how much he dreamt of growing a long beard and hitting the road with a rabbit and a hat. his jokes, the ones no one laughed at, why did he keep telling them? and the tricks, weren't they just another pathetic attempt at making up for the lack of real magic in his life? maybe he could perform a trick where he unsawed himself in half, made himself whole? he was so sick of feeling the lack. no amount of practice was going to make her appear. it's just him and the rabbit shitting and pissing all over everything. he wished for his life to stop stinking, but it didn't. wishing by itself is not enough.