Guess whose cane that is!

It's that time of the month again, and the corridors of my university are packed with predators and prey. On my way to the refectory I pass one of the new students, another rabbit, talking with a cat whose arm is absently circled around his waist. I recognise the look in her eyes, her lazy smile---even if he doesn't seem to. There's a shout from somewhere near the Great Hall as someone starts to give chase. (And, should the unfortunate quarry run somewhere unobserved, then what?) On the faces of the prey I see fear and confusion and bravado and wariness. I avoid the speculative gazes of the predators watching the passing crowds.

This morning I was in so early it was just me and...
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Hello, everyone! Welcome to my burrow. Well. I say my burrow--I think you'll be pleasantly surprised to learn that this is in fact not the place I sleep (for any predators that intend to creep back when I am not protected by the guardians of Eka's portal's blogging service) but a convenient place to talk without fear! (Primarily mine.)

So, anyway, it's my time of the month. I seem to have this cycle, wherein long periods of perfectly normal levels of, um, desire, are interspersed with fascinated contemplation on what it means to be prey (and, necessarily, what it means to be consumed). I don't exactly fly off the rails, but it suddenly becomes incredibly fun to eat vegan (a la a rabbit) and picture big, bad predators walking around me in the corridors, for the...
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