Bucephalus sits in his room. It is as wide as it is tall which makes
it about adequate. He snorts and stomps his hoofs. Alexander enters,
beturbaned and mad. 'My horse, my great horse,' he coos. Cracking his
fingers time stops. He winds the music box and joy to the world plinks
out. 'Where there is great love there are always miracles,' he whispers
into the horses neck. There has been no other love for him other than
the waft and weight of Bucephalus. Love is a miracle like a male with the
ability to be pregnant. When the music stops time starts. Alexander
leaves the stable and is greeted by a great stabbing.
Bucephalus sits in his room.
The copyright of this post belongs to Moira Cormack
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