Sorry to see our unicorn approach the bolt. But it had lost its teeth, it was lame from hoof-rot. Its mane shed stringy wisps. 

Worst of all was the Horn, which I tried to reattach when it fell off. Oh, I tried so hard! 

But now it was crooked. Rolling its eyes, the Poor Beast lunged after the point, bleating. Raging. Mad. What else could I do? 

There comes a time for taking stock. 

Making sense. 

Glue.

by Charles Holdefer

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