These stirrups. That everlasting anguish – placed all upon neverending reckoning. Held gently against, she braids his masculine face at these handsomely sharp edges – as a twitching demeanour suddenly turns sprightly at the sight of the shapely sun, one son. Before his comforting father, therein, stool-ridden sits the aforementioned daughter – learning it all together – a trio of tremendous people. Attempting, attempting… attempting to eventually get her back toward racing again.

One horse with no pause anymore – a.dore