Funny Bunny

One of the gentler entries in the Pillows' catalog, this song opens with a clean, fingerpicked guitar line that feels almost tentative — as if it's approaching something fragile and doesn't want to startle it. The tempo is slow and unhurried, the production stripped back to breath and space. When the electric guitar arrives it does so softly, adding warmth rather than weight, and the rhythm section stays restrained throughout, keeping the mood intimate rather than driving. Yamaguchi's vocal performance here is quietly devastating — his voice carries more vulnerability than usual, the edges slightly rough in a way that reads as genuine rather than stylized. The song is a meditation on loss and endurance: someone who has been diminished by grief or loneliness but hasn't disappeared entirely, still present, still holding on to something small. There's no cathartic explosion, no chorus that lifts into the sky — it stays low and close to the ground the whole way through, which is precisely what gives it its power. Within the Pillows' body of work, which tends toward the kinetic and overdriven, "Funny Bunny" represents the still center — the quiet that makes the loud moments elsewhere feel earned. It's a song for solitary mornings, for the specific kind of sadness that doesn't ask for comfort, for lying on the floor and letting something wash over you until you feel slightly less alone.