The quick brown fox is tired of fame. What’s wrong with repeating letters? He drags his lazy dog into Llanfairpwll’s hall of mirrors to tease it, to discover if it will see god, but it sees through words to the exit.
The clock’s loneliness ticks like a keyboard and the dark snow writes black, becomes a screensaver, though only the fox needs saving now. He’s too old to flatter Crow, and hates gingerbread. Nor can he swim. Instead he hops across stepping stones, each etched with a symbol, then goes back to enter the river again, slips up, loses Ctrl.
