My Strange Case as an Abductee of Equestria--
12/01/(Our Lord's Year)/ A.D. DECEMBER 1st.
I first noticed this whole dig at the (they say this on T.V.) digit tremors unlike those of seniles and motor-runners early birth, these are the tremors of a 'junkie' for the Equestrian, or a total horse jockey who splits at her fingers in a "Hya! Git!", get to it in a err -- (this prophylaxis for looking disgruntled in the D.H.L. parking lot). When the Dumb Sum Baby says "1+2+3+...", the susp slack in a stick, automated in sedula "How high?", I say. (Anno XXIII.) There's only four corners to this world but in some reageant Luck (Fortuna chides me catty like a friend with a Powerball sum), the rushmasting and my saddle stays sturdy even at the office. It didn't matter if I started noticing these tremors, I stepped and I stepped and I found myself secanting in a gallop or a strut, this is the way things are. It doesn't matter if I'm airing out my patchoulis or kissing him like some sick dog, I will always find myself galloping like some grassbound boy, the ones you find on T.V., Community Broadcasting of Tarzan the Titular. I can find myself in the slumps, looking caterpillar, but out of some good Luck, I'll find myself in Equestria, valence senator and high priestess lays by me in a viz. 'comprendo'. Kritches ring out of my mobil, e-mail angels saccade their halos onto me as I'm practicing 'snow angel' exercises and my wings form out of some concentrated ordeal. I don't care for the kritchkillers, the one that say "T.P.S. S.H.T.F. RECALL ALL AGENTS.", I lay out there by the fond heart of the vernacular of my smiling sweet-heart. "When did they come for you? Are they green and gooey? Or, ectoplasmic and irregular?" I don't know the grey man or what are of his antics, all I know is when I pretend to be deuteradexterous with both eyes soft and gentle, close one and saccade like my own private C.C.T.V. ambivalent surveiling system. In one eye (L), I see the world as its own war, my lights hyperfluorescent in a sickly yellow. (R) In the other, I see: the standing oration of a living, the candles tallow and standing on rebar or tin rods, --never slanting-- they are irregular upright straight in infantry, all for the passing in wont of the loving aroma of the living color. (LIKE T.V.). I wasn't brought in slantering canoe like Oisin to Gael, booking the two-week notice for his fiancing of Fianna. Or for that matter, I wasn't stranded like Survivor (a telenovel in America), I was in stead swiping the sweat off the rounded in angelical brows of my Britannica (LIKE CREDIT CARD.) --I call her that for her occasional glasses (taped off in sparadra) only in tandem to her unserious smack and smack of her eschatological gum (ectoplasm of sunflowers, only visible in Equestria). I say this all for I dramaminely believe, all honest in sensora, that we were born together. Not in slick pomade of concrete placenta, or Kypre's sea, both castrated from Ouranos, Hesiod weeps in caesura. But rather, willfully, opposite of undone diligence, thamaturgized and evoked in Verona.