Ophelia Lapin is a poet, a communist, a rabbit, a communist, a recovering child solider, a lover, a communist philosopher, a friend to some, a lover to all; Ophelia is a person you know, a cylcical process of giving up and then giving up on giving up, a yearner, a communist communist, a semi-professional bloodletter; Ophelia is your girlfriend, maybe, or wife or girlfriend or boyfriend, or the hottest day in February, or the wind that gently shapes the flame into a eulogy; a communist commmunist commmmmunist; Ophelia is the tempestuous flicker of a lightbulb suffering from chronic heaviness; Ophelia is a framed photograph of the sunset over a make-believe ocean; Ophelia is a buyer and seller of electric chairs- and debt; Ophelia is a horizon line that approaches you with dauntless speed, the dark and solemn hornblow announcing a platoon of heartbreaks. Ophelia hasn't laid down her weapons. Communist. Ophelia is a rabbit hiding in a hole and hoping you'll come in.