The camel catches his breath, wipes the sweat from his brow. It was a tight squeeze, but he made it.
Lying back on the unbelievably lush grass, he remembers: all those years (how excruciating they were!) of fasting and one-pointed concentration, until finally he was thin enough: thaumaturgically thin, thread-thin, almost unrecognizable in his camelness: until the moment in front of the unblinking eye, when he put his front hooves together. Took one long last breath. Aimed. Dived.
The exception may prove the rule, but what proves the exception? “It is not that such things are possible,” the camel thinks, smiling. “But such things are possible for me.”