Dear Rabbit,

How is it going? Rabbit, you don't speak. We spent a few weeks together last winter. I'm writing this letter to you because I’ve been thinking about you ever since. We arrogantly neglected your needs in silence. You don't chatter when you're happy; you won't howl when you get angry; you won't grunt when sad. I know that silence doesn't mean that you are not a meticulously delicate mind; instead, you are. Your happiness is stomping around; your anger is thumping the ground; your expression of discontent is a self-mutilating hunger strike. Excuse me for my plain words to describe your diverse emotions. I’ve thought those sensations need to respond to verbal language to be heard and seen. 

The few times you make a sound from your throat is when you are under external stimuli and extreme physical pain. You shriek, and then you face death – the moment of no more silence is the moment of death. I never witnessed your screams. However, I've seen a black cat on a corner of the street with you in its mouth, and I didn't hear you scream then either. I want to know, what makes you call? What makes you decide to cry with your heart torn out? Is it to feel death approaching, or do you see an irresistible future? What makes you determined to speak out at the end of your life and then head for death without hesitation?

I want to do something for you. I wonder if I listen to you carefully and observe your subtle gestures, is it possible to see you and see your silent protests? Is it, so you don't need to be toward death anymore for us to hear you?