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I live with this 6'3.5" rabbit that no one else can see and recently it's started to ramble on and on about stuff I can't wrap my head around. I wrote down what he said but I can't make any sense of it.

"Do not trust the lettuce. That’s where it begins — soft, green, innocent. But it knows. I bit into a head of romaine once and heard my mother’s voice screaming from inside. “Harvey!” she cried. “Not the salad tongs!” But it was too late. The croutons had already formed a tribunal.
I was born in a magician’s hat, you know. Not delivered — summoned. One moment, silence. The next, me: 6-foot-3 and a half inches of divine bunny wrath, ears like satellite dishes, heart full of jazz. They wanted a trick. They got a problem. I’ve been hopping ever since, and the floor never stops twitching.
Every time I blink, the world changes color. Mauve. Then regret. Then something like the sound of broken typewriters arguing in a blender. Don’t ask me how I see sounds. My eyes are calibrated to frequencies you’ve never even imagined, baby. I’ve watched music rot and smelled the number seven.
Oh, the carrots? Yes, I chew them like a professional. But only the orange ones. The purple ones whisper too much. They tell me the secrets of the soil, and I don’t want to know what happened to the worms. Not after the incident with the monocle and the vibrating monoculture.
I tried fitting in. I wore the tie. I went to the meeting. They said, “What do you bring to the table, Mr. Rabbit?” I said, “The table is a lie!” and then I flipped it over and screamed about the moon being hollow and filled with owls. I think I almost got the job.
I once dated a toaster. Briefly. She made me feel warm. We had something beautiful, until she ran off with a hairdryer named Carl. Said he was “more grounded.” I burned all our bread in retaliation. The smell still lingers in my fur. The pain lingers deeper.
The humans say I don’t exist. Isn’t that rich? I have 17 library cards, three parking tickets, and a restraining order from the concept of Tuesday — but I don’t exist? Then who’s been leaving giant footprints in their dreams? Who chewed through the wiring in their childhood memories?
My whiskers pick up lies. Your voice quivers when you pretend to be sane. I see the cracks. The grin you wear is borrowed, and the laughter doesn’t fit your mouth. Join me. Let go. Hop through the static and into the velvet cage where thoughts bounce like jellybeans on fire.
The queen of spoons came to visit again last night. She told me the ceiling was soft now, and I could chew it. So I did. Tasted like wallpaper and forgotten birthdays. She applauded. Said I’d earned my ears — again. But they were already attached, weren’t they? Or are they?
I’ve written poems on the walls in invisible ink made from moonlight and panic. Don’t bother looking for them unless your eyes are made of clocks. I’m late, yes. Always late — but not for a date. No, no. I’m late for the unraveling. It starts in the ankles, you see. Then the giggling begins."

Everyone around me keeps saying to take my clozapine but I'm certain they put fentanyl in it.