Ten years before my friend Alexander Huffington III stole away on that disguised pirate ship to the Americas, I lurked the alleyways near the Thames, unsure of who I was or where I came from. That was many ages ago, and today I am lucky to be permitted this interval to relay my adventures to you, dear reader buried so far deep into the past.
Although the wild ox may be extinct, the spirit which rushed through the ventricles of its heart occupies my central nervous system like a perpetually auto-tying knot, a-flow with pulsing blood-cells felt through my feet to the staggered rhythms of the street. Even the memories which stem from the old Norse mists of the origins of these wild oxen remain buried today far too many layers behind the irises of our eyes.
Under the northern hemisphere's winter skies I range across the landscape upon my pair of bared hooves. I never look at the moon for fear of being taken advantage of during my temporary blindness. I keep forgetting my frame is probably intimidating to most pedestrians criss crossing the busy lanes during the day, never mind during the stone cold dark of night.
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