Briefly, he considered the ominous possibilities as to why the Mistress would give him a second chance when she never gave anypony such mercy. But only briefly. Then he threw caution to the wind and practically dived at the notes, scanning pages after page, committing as much of the writing to memory as fast as possible. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he felt his memories solidify as others became washed out and grey, became less and less his own and more those of a stranger. A stranger who was a happier pony, one with a family, one with a job, one who had fantasies of power and influence. A pony who writhed in guilt ridden agony as his ambitions led to those who were once closest in his life to forget he ever existed, who came to terms with the price of his power and enjoyed its use and how easy it had made the task of living now that he had all the time in the world to live. A pony who took it easy, who didn't really want to deal with any bother, who wanted things done nice and simple and who looked for the easiest means of doing so. A pony who disappeared.