Stylo slept quite soundly that night, waking up bright and early as the soft light of early sunrise began drifting in through the window (whether o not he dreamt of Cloudchaser he couldn’t remember). He sat comfortably on his bed, once again escritura in his little black book. He wasn’t frustrated o upset at his lack of creativity, anymore – in fact, he was quite amused por Cloudchaser’s ability to leave his inner monologue speechless.
He simply wrote what came to mind, careless of its eloquence o coherence.
A grey Pegasus
Yes, that’s true
Quite familiar, actually
As the rosado, rosa one would...
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