First attempt: handshake for skill.
Second attempt: pat on the head for industry and effort.
Third attempt: cautious retreat of one who sniffs madness in his own kind.
Quite the third piece done in triplicate this past month. My happy groove has wound itself into a yawning trench. Dotted with the ghosts of bloodless pens who signal each other in code and keep travelling the same sad arc of a reindeer's horn. They think there's a formula to be found, but the Queen's cold math doesn't yield much.
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