I look into the rabbit's eyes as the lights go out. I squeeze the tube of industrial glue in my left hand, the screwdriver in my right, and listen carefully. The rabbit takes on new dimensions in the semi-darkness. Its head swells, its eyes bulge, and the tips of its ears disappear somewhere high above, its teeth extending in front of me like tusks. Suddenly, its three-meter stature doubles in size and becomes much more threatening. It looks like a guardian of the very darkness itself. Now it seems to be looking at me as if I were a tempting carrot. Of course, none of this is true. The giant German rabbit is made of hard plastic and metal parts. The space is large, tall, and deserted. The adventure park "CharaMas" still smells of fun and fast food, the scent of candies has stuck to the clothes.
I stand between the slides and the train, waiting. The scaffolding next to me has suddenly cast a large shadow. A faint light spills from the "exit" sign on the door and from the lanterns and flashes of vehicles and various-sized rides in the area. The result is a blurry illumination, a mixture of dark green, orange from the alarm, and shades of red from the start buttons. If I had been in a similar situation a little while ago, I would have thought that the lights went out so suddenly either due to a power outage or some technical problem. Recently, however, I have learned that what once seemed possible is increasingly falling into the category of the unlikely.