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 ou not he dreamt of Cloudchaser he couldn’t remember). He sat comfortably on his bed, once again écriture in his little black book. He wasn’t frustrated ou upset at his lack of creativity, anymore – in fact, he was quite amused par Cloudchaser’s ability to leave his inner monologue speechless.
He simply wrote what came to mind, careless of its eloquence ou coherence.
A grey Pegasus
Yes, that’s true
Quite familiar, actually
As the rose one would...
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