He liked to believe he was a hero, the last of the knights that cantered on the lush meadows of earth. But where was the greenery, except in his eyes, and where was his stallion, save in the idleness of his reveries. Yet he galloped on, in search of something he never knew.

There was no war for him to fight; there were no damsels in distress for him to comfort. It was hardly a kingdom of yore with carnation at his steps and the whole wide world under his chin. He evaded the reality of his displacement with a taciturnity of a lonesome house lizard: there but not there!

He remained invisible throughout his life, for he lived in a different plane. And he died a lonesome death. His disappointment unctioned by the fact that Galileo died a sad man, and Columbus did discover America. He bore the ridicule of time with a nonchalant stoic, as is the badge of his tribe.

After his death, the white stallion traded his rein. He gleefully ferried teenagers on sea-beaches, his arrogance obviated by his hunger. As his silky mane swayed in the evening gale, his master smiled in his grave.

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