I ride the stallion of advanced planning. I have that urban swagger that so many suburbanites emulate. I rule wide open spaces with the twist of a wrist and fingers splayed broadly like palm fronds dancing on the sidewalk. I ride the stallion of no particular place to go. I ride the stallion of electronic commerce and rotted storefronts and water damage.
Mere thoughts change the patterns cast by shadows and the humidity in the air.
I wave my arms and make it rain. I wrinkle my nose and the land is dyed purple. I ride the stallion whose stare cracks porcelain. And the horse goes home. And the swagger turns into an ordinary walk.