It was a good dream. I dreamt I was a pony. No, not one of the pale imitations my people masquerade as. A real pony, one of her little ponies, living in her ideal world of friendship and harmony. It's odd how easily death could make one honest with oneself. Or perhaps even selfish pride had become too much a luxury to indulge in. There was no strength left for hubris, let alone audacity.  I was so weak, so drained, in both mind and body, a breezie could probably snuff me out now. 