Whence the red fox doth heave itself, taking flight via muscular thighs, through gates of fire it will be that blurry human figures shall be waiting beyond in slow motion while the fox jump-runs, multiplying infinitely into a gradient gray and into a branch-pattern (lightning), past them.

The fox is running and is only running and has run and will run, forever, past all.

Past time and space and reality, past you and me and our dreams and nightmares, forever running.