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.
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