The coke-lime sigil, a vigil, invincible
In the twilight sparkle of a life there is a song of an angel pouring forth a basket loved by none except the fulminating recidivism of bathos donning the sun-garbed florets borne out of the normalcy of the tide. A boring aside, a broken stride, ride the blue bus. The machinations of the hexadecimal propaganda confine the erudition of the bafflegab merchant into the zodiac hemisphere.
Snortle at the spooky in the pornographic vision of Equestria.
Oh, the grand galloping gale of the pin-the-tail paradigm; a contorted formulation of the gilded night impaler assailed with nonce and regret.
You can get it if you try with a hop, a drop, a skip, a flop, a flip, a jump and a bump on the side of your neck. Protect your neck and inspect the deck, the spotted dick, crowing like a corncob.
She's an evil enchantress, with a big tasty stew, and the news of the blue is the life of the strife. The poetic moralist: knife, if, rain, again. Remain in sin and tuck it in. The burrowing mole in the sole of the soul rusts brightly along the flotsam shores.
Three months of winter foolishness borne aloft on the craft and tuft; three thousand years of evolution remaining in time of the consanguinity laws for sake of purity machinations. Winter will never end and you will see greater things than spring yet. Find the southern birds in the loft puffed on the daft aft inasmuch as you know what they all do. Find your place!
A cup of flowers on the altar of vanilla cakes incite the right rhizome riot. Choking vapor, cigarette paper, the rape of the shylock, croup and dock; the cringewind seeps sleepily down the thoroughfare.
The zones of Twilight's dress in the facing of replacing a life inborn and ingrown breast, the moans of chess, forelock and crest, the nest of heart, light burnt through the art of the actor's part. Obtrusive colors of the mothers of the saviors in a greatly painful shine. Hold to your vision and make it look cooler. It needs to be plenty, approximately twenty—
Now hush. Lay your foolish head before the caliphs of the wisdom of starlight and teacups. The infinitely-multiple integration of the intelligible endures intensively—it is incorrigible. Forever unknown, for ages ungrown, for life lived alone, a pony, a pone.
When your talent comes to light the night of the fright blooms into a crusade of the sweet nectars of cute shoots, marked fruits, edged with spite, the natural right. A sword of discord or a cord of accord; crayons, or peons?
What is this place filled with fluttering wonder? The honey of money when you are a capitalist pegasist is lovey of the mist in the race. Fine feathered flappers' affections are fighting the fire of ferrous infections...
At the gala, in the garden, you are going to die alone. All your dreams will end forever, right here at the gala. Eye of the gale, the calm of deception, your futile wishes... you wanted to be royal? You wished and waited for the night of pleasures and fame? You were a fool all along. The crowds shower you with piss and no one spares a pity for your menial, venial sin, your deadly zen, your phallic obsession with the horn of the unicorn, the magic stick. The magic you wanted was a lie, the woman was a spy, you unleash a sigh, you die.
My little folly, our little folly.... aaaagh!
I used to wonder what friendship could be, until you all spilled the till, rushing the scene, crashing and bursting in language obscene, with night at the heels and the day far away, the glow getting cold and the callous and insane refrain growing louder and pounding the ground with the darkening seed of the deathblow impaler. The insincere cost of the laugh held in half measures, growing to half pleasures, flaccidly simmering, choking, remembering shimmering memories; oh what a fall, what a folly of all, didn't we have a ball in our dollhouse of sin? What a side-splitting joke, when the shadow of sunlight awoke, spilling in—
All you've ever dreamed is folly! Wake up!
Twilight Sparkle finished, again, reading over her short story. She was entering a contest in a national youth literary journal, The Gifted Horse, and her entry had to be perfect. She beamed as she read and re-read the prized lines over which she had sweated so much.
"Capitalist pegasist! That's brilliant!" Twilight giggled at her own brilliance. "Tee-hee-heee... Twilight Sparkle, you do surprise me sometimes!"
She looked around for Spike. Not immediately seeing him, she reflexively shouted his name.
"Spiiiiike! Come here, Spike!"
A second later, and Spike burst in through the bedroom door.
"What is it, Twilight? Ghosts? Where are the ghosts? Aaaah!" Twilight's candlelight flickered, shifting the angle of Spike's shadow, and he jumped at the sight of its motion.
"Oh, Spike, don't be silly," Twilight said condescendingly. "I just want you to read over this story I wrote. Tell me what you think!"
"Awesome!" said Spike, breathing a sigh of relief. He quickly shuffled up to Twilight. "That sounds like fun! What's your story about?"
Twilight handed him the manuscript with a smug look on her face. "O ho ho ho ho... you'll just have to read it to find out!" She gave him a light noogie and excused herself to the bathroom.
As Spike read Twilight's manuscript, his eager look was slowly replaced with a look of cluelessness mixed with cosmic horror. The flush of the toilet sounded, and as Twilight returned from the bathroom, Spike looked up with glazed-over, traumatized eyes. His chin quivered, and he spoke the only words he could find.
"Twilight... what the fuck is this shit?"
