While no primate vision would have been entirely sharp enough to peer through the curious smogs and troublingly stormlike whisps of low-hanging cloud, it is entirely possible that cold, pitiless eyes were, as Mr. Wells suggests, stabbing gimlet glares through the gossamer planetary atmosphere and watching her as she wended wearily through alleys and valleys, evading curious eldritch obstacles, searching desperately for an ounce of moonlight in the tempest-shrouded skies, continuing with grim determination until she encountered a particularly ill-placed pothole, and fell right in.
And down she fell, down, down, floating, fleeting, plunging, surrounded by shapes which injured the eye, sounds which grated uncannily on the ear, and, for no reason anyone might discern, a reasonable amount of Victorian furniture.
It seemed to be a rabbit-hole, were Rabbits the builders of ancient megaliths, the moving hand behind the ever-redrawing map of human civilization. Stonehenge? A cosmic bauble. Excalibur? No more than a tool for cutting Great Pyramid stone, later mis-used and mi-mythed.
At the bottom, there is no bottom. Such is Humanity’s place in the Universe – plummeting forever through spaces which make no sense, diving knowledgeless into the ineffably uncomprehensible.
How far down does the Rabbithole go? Come with us, peer into the eyes of the Rabbit, and never will you sleep again. For that, be grateful; bunnies cavort through the subconscious. Do not allow them access to the front of your mind, even in drowse.
Leave now, before you fall.
Or is it too late?
Pass the carrots, Cthulhu.