Hate.

It threatened to consume her soul, burden her mind, and overcome her heart with every moment that passed. It was a blinding cloak of white light that disguised itself so that its inherently dark properties would not become apparent. She felt it the most at day; it followed in her moonlit shadow every night. And whereas she attempted to sleep off the day, and cast worries away, it haunted her dreams, clenching them in a grip that sucked the very breath out of her, until she woke up, panting, lost, as if some explosion had just torn through her world.

She hated the hate.

Still attempting to recover from her swarming dreams, she let herself collapse back into the folds of her immaculate sheets, disheveled by her figure every night as her subconscious fruitlessly tried to fight. She bit her lip as a distraction as eyes frantically darting around the room, gathering her bearings. Despite the darkness her curtains brought her, the mare had incredible perception of her surroundings.

This was still, indeed, her room. Not the moon. Her room. The glow-in-the-dark stars testified to that on the ceiling above. And despite her thousand year absence, Princess Celestia, her elder sister, had taken several measures to preserve her room—or, at the very least, its appearance. She couldn't remember the mattress beneath her being so hard and stiff, nor could she recall the tense feel of the curtains when she drew them every morning. But her sister had tried, at the very least. And most of the other furniture had been able to remain.

Luna rolled onto her side, but upon her coat, there was a fine layer of sweat that was already caking into her sheets and covers. She already knew that this would make it impossible to sleep, so with an aggravated grunt, she flailed her hooves and flung the sheets off of her. From there, she began to find her footing, only to slip on the slippery edge and tumble to the floor. Granted, the fall had not hurt so badly, but she was loath to admit that the fall had happened at all. Royal duty called, even in her private bedchambers. Or so she liked to think.

Awkwardly rolling onto her hooves, she sighed and trudged over to the desk opposite the bed. Her legs dragged on the plush carpeting, which felt too soft, and she spared an ounce of thought to the regions above her bed. Her horn glowed a dim sheen of blue, and a soothing, ethereal light cast itself into the dim corners of the room. She glanced up at the celestial sphere above her, and had to remind herself of the illusion's fallibility; for where her childish glow-in-the-dark stars held fast was not exactly a ceiling, but a transparent layer of magic, past which a faux moon and the surrounding stars hovered in the air underneath the shade of a stone dome.

Luna had brightened the celestial sphere's image to a waxing crescent, preferring the softer amounts of 'reflected' light to a full moon, or heavens forbid, the piercing glare of her sister's sun. She noticeably cringed at the thought as she came up to her desk, and was once more glad she was the only one in her room.

It hurts to be alone, though, the Princess of the Night thought as a solemn frown crossed her features. She glanced back to the empty bed, and then to the rest of the room, as desolate as that. She remembered her first week back in Equestria, a thousand years after her banishment to the moon—or, rather, Nightmare Moon's banishment. But that eternity of darkness, untouched by a single pony, had been as much hers as it was that of her inner demon. And so, for a week after the Elements of Harmony had cast the wicked being back into the recesses of her mind, she didn't leave Princess Celestia's side. They attended court together, ate together, attended functions together, and embarrassingly enough, they shared a bed together as well, for Luna feared her own eternal loneliness to return once more.

This arrangement held firm for four days and nights. Celestia had simply been glad enough to have her sister back. But Luna's stability worsened. The next day, she had a panic attack waiting for Celestia to finish her morning bath. After that, they both agreed, though Luna did so hesitantly, that she needed professional help.

The therapy began the next day. Celestia granted a prominent psychologist in Canterlot the appointment with her sister, and they were allowed to meet. Luna thought her very kind and gentle-hearted, and well-composed, despite her previously-constant use of the Royal Canterlot Voice at first. It was over a full year later, though, and they still met. It was nice to talk, but it was clear that therapy wasn't going to get through to the princess so easily.

But of course, a pony will defend her own mind. They'll defy the prods of their therapists. After all…who will understand?

Luna sighed again before knocking on one of the drawers in her desk. She knocked on the drawer beneath it, and then skipped one down for another knock before returning to it and offering it such as well. There was a wind of clockwork in the desk, and from the surface underneath, a hidden compartment popped open and hung suspended. Concentrating her magic into unseen places, Luna found her hold and weaved the object out before placing it on the desktop.

Her eyes fell upon the hardcover book before her, and with the will of her horn, her magic grabbed the front cover and swung it open.

Dear Diary,

Today is…well, the first time we have ever written a diary entry before, so we are not quite certain as to what we should write. Everypony we know says that they have them—the colts call them journals, though—and that this is surely where one can find a person's deepest, darkest secrets, but all that seems quite foolish to us. Why should we bother to keep them, then? Perhaps we should just ask mother

Luna stopped reading at that point, and couldn't help but note that while she had referred to herself in the royal 'we,' her writing defied the fairly Shakestallion-esque speech constructions that the family had been expected to use over a thousand years ago. Of course, common speech had been constant and, well, common, far before she had written this, so it seemed normal enough to her, anyway.

She flipped through the pages, which seemed to appear out of the back cover and disappear through the front beneath whichever stacks of pages she was on. At the end of each entry was her name, signature, and the date, which stretched through countless days in countless years, and through several different calendars.

And suddenly, she was met with yellow blankness. Luna scrunched up her face before turning back to the last entry she had made over a thousand years ago:

Dear Journal,

Luna paused and allowed herself a forlorn smile, which was fairly rare when she was alone. She remembered switching from 'diary' to 'journal' when she deemed the former too childish for herself. She continued to read:

This is getting ridiculous! I have yet to find a single pony who doesn't simply sleep through the night with no appreciation for the soothing darkness I bring them! Don't they understand how much work I put into that sky? How perfect the stars and the constellations they form are, and how delicately they were put into place? And the moon doesn't raise itself! But the most these ponies can conjure up for its purpose is as an outdoor nightlight! The blasphemy! And of course, Celestia is praised and praised about her sun, and the warmth it brings! Buck her! The moon is just as important, if not more important! Why doesn't anypony see it? I swear, if this keeps up

Luna stopped reading. She couldn't actually read anymore. There were tears in her eyes: tears of regret and anguish. She could feel that very same hate brewing inside of her again. Memories were too much to bear. She just wanted them cast aside, not just from her, but from everypony! She wished none of it had happened. She wished that she hadn't been banished to the moon, that she hadn't been shunned by her subjects, that she hadn't ever been neglected as a pony, and that she didn't simply wander about in her life, aimlessly, with no clear direction anymore.

She wished it all didn't seem pointless now.

But it really was. Everything was merely history, and that was all. She had to fight to fake her content, but it was all that could pass across her face, now. But everypony acted like it didn't matter, yet it mattered to her.

Oh, heavens, what is actually wrong with me?

Luna spent the next several minutes trying to cry, but the tears wouldn't come forth. She wouldn't let them. To do so would be defeat, and that would be death to her. It was done, and it was over. Everypony expected her to move on, including herself.

Easier said than done.

When she finally consented to calming down, she quickly did so, before staring down at the journal sprawled before her. While it had never been a tomb of dark secrets, the pages had always been a place to confide in. Her feelings marred these pages from the beginning. From confusion on what to do, to a happy fillyhood, to a sad chapter after the deaths of her parents, to the raging jealousy towards her sister, and then into the apathy towards her world. But then it stopped. It cut off. Luna had been holding off on writing again. She didn't know if she was the same pony anymore. But in light of these lost nightmares of late, Luna didn't know what to do. She was frightened, lonely, scarred, broken, and it didn't seem like the repairs would hold.

She levitated a quill and inkwell over to her, and dipping the point in, took it to a blank paper and began to write.

8~30~1001

It's…been a while since I've written in this…there's a lot to go over, I think…

From those first words, Luna's vision blurred, and it would continue to do so until the sun approached the horizon outside, past her drawn curtains, and the gentle tug of her responsibilities reverberated through her horn. It was normally her wake-up call, but not today.

Canterlot was usually a very noble town—which was to say that it had a tendency to lean towards snobbish and arrogant ponies as its occupants, but even then, the cobblestone below and the buildings sprung into place around them were of a simply grandeur nature. At this time of the day, at sunset, ponies were busy either returning from work, or preparing for the night in their own homes. Some were doing both, still adjusting from the work flow of their high-tier jobs and preparing for whatever function that night had been dedicated to.

Of course, this meant that there were ponies in the streets, and none of them were too pleased when one pony in particular bounded past, clearly in a rush. He also had a tendency to think along the lines of thought that he was smaller than he was. And he was fairly small, just below the average for a pegasus pony, but this did not prevent him from bumping against several mares and gentlecolts, eliciting several cries and outbursts behind him.

"Sorry!" He yelled back behind him. "Running late!"

Indeed, he was. He worked two jobs, and some freelance work on the side, just to make ends meet here in Canterlot. And his first job had kept him overtime in warehouse duties, as a shipment had gotten misplaced, and he had to find it and tag it for delivery before leaving. Not helping was the fact that his wing had been injured in a brawl a few weeks ago, and he was still healing. That was the danger of his second job: bartender in a club down in the lower-portions of Canterlot, where the common pony was prominent. But ever since his injury, he had been frequently late to work, as his travel schedule had been primarily based on flight, and he had no time to adjust. The last weeks had been a blur as he tried to work, eat, and sleep. He had been missing meals—never good for the metabolism of a pegasus—but he couldn't afford to take them. He just didn't have the time, plus a relatively miniscule amount of money was all he had in his saddlebags.

The situation he was in, though, made it virtually impossible to move to cheaper locales, or seek better jobs in the capital city of Equestria. Unfortunate, but true for the time being.

As he ran, the scenery slowly began to droop from fancy adornments on every building to more down-to-earth houses. He quickly rushed his path away from the residential areas and to the more 'business' sided ones, and down dark alleyways as the sun was setting, he slipped through the backdoor of the club he worked at.

He was met with a small army of roadies moving about in the backrooms. They were moving several pieces of expensive DJ equipment, along with lighting and supporting sound systems. The pony's eyes were drawn to the turntables, and were it not for the exquisite control of his jaw, he would have started drooling right there and then. As the equipment was wheeled out of site, he shook his head and headed for the doors into the club. He was stopped by a familiar voice, however.

"Three Dee! Three Dee!"

The pony in question huffed, and the hopes that he would be able to clock in first dashed away. He turned around, and plastered on a genuine smile. I'll live, I suppose.

"Hey, Vinyl," Three Dee greeted the white unicorn as she trotted up to him.

"How's my favorite DJ-wannabe-bartender doing?" The electronic artist asked with a nearly-demented grin. She reached up a hoof and brushed aside some of the electric blue mane in her face as she did so, and Three Dee couldn't help but admire the style in which she had it cut.

"Not nearly as well as you have, it seems," he answered, his smile faltering in just the slightest. Vinyl Scratch noticed, though. She always could. She lifted her goggles up to peer at him with red eyes.

"Something on your mind?" She asked, straight to the point.

"Well, not particularly. I pulled this one off a few weeks ago." Three Dee distracted his friend by gently expanding the bandaged wing on his right side. He let out a hiss as he reached the limit of how far it could currently go, and pulled it back taut against his side. The goggles fell back over the DJs eyes.

"Ouch. Club fight?" Vinyl guessed, and Three Dee nodded in confirmation. "That sucks, dude. But at least you're still alive!"

"Yep." Three Dee's smile held this time. He was genuinely glad that Vinyl Scratch was one of those ponies on the club circuit that had become friends with him, and as it were, she was one of those ponies who knew that it was good to be alive. And that went for her, and all of her friends.

It was this line of logic that allowed Three Dee to know that dumping his working troubles as of late on Vinyl Scratch would be as pointless as dropping the bass on deaf ears. Vinyl's care for everypony, including herself, lay solely on the fact that they were alive. To be unthankful for that was a bit of a tragedy to her. She wouldn't take offense, but she would know how to handle it because she wouldn't understand why.

"Okay, so I've got to get some equipment setup in the booth. The record company switched my roadies for my Canterlot gigs, and none of them know just how erratic my setup actually is." Vinyl let loose that demented grin again, and Three Dee laughed. He remembered playing around with it once before the club opened, a long time ago. It seemed that every MIDI control had been changed or switched around. Not even the EQs seemed right. It was indeed, part of a setup that only Vinyl Scratch would ever wield. And wield it she did, better than a pro in his eyes. She was the master if she could mix the songs in her own crazy ways.

"Do you want me to keep sending you drinks?" Three Dee grinned back, and it was Vinyl's turn to laugh.

"Of course, but keep them on the lighter side, please. I'm playing a double set tonight," that excited Three Dee. The second shift—his shift—would be nothing but DJ PON-3!

"You're going on late too, right?" He checked.

"Of course! Someone has to lower the crowd's expectations beforehand!" She joked, before beginning to wander off. "Don't forget about the drinks!"

"Okay! Nothing but hard cider for you!" Three Dee called back jokingly.

"I'm serious!" Vinyl laughed. "I won't drink anything beneath sarsaparilla, though!"

"Deal!" Three Dee saluted with his hoof before proceeding to enter the club itself.

The club he worked at was currently empty, and currently darkened. LED lights coiled around most of the surfaces, evoking ethereal images out of simple booths, stages, and floors. To his right was the entrance, complete with coat check, and the final passageway into the expansive party space. Directly to his left was the bar: his brown-coated, blond mane coworker was there as well.

"Hey, Three Dee. You're late," Shaker rumbled out, before pointing to the compact punch clock behind the bar counter. "Time is money."

"I know." The pony sighed, before grabbing his punch card in his teeth and inserting it. There was a whir, and a click, and he pulled it out. He had clocked in at 7:27 today: super late.

"The boss won't be happy unless you take down tonight's inventory," Shaker continued.

"Way to be helpful," Three Dee huffed as he grabbed the clipboard and pen underneath the counter. He flapped his uninjured wing, allowing himself some leverage to stand on two hooves and log the products. Normally, he would simply be in the air, but his injured wing attested to that impossibility of the moment.

This was how the night continued for Three Dee, until nine o'clock hit, and the masses began to pile in, dancing to the prerecorded mixes of epic nights past. Unfortunately, he couldn't take everything down in time, though everything currently behind the bar was accounted for. With DJ PON-3 in the house, though, he was certain that they would have to dip into the backroom stores, which had to go mostly unaccounted for. He knew he was going to take some heat for that as he left the bar to wait out the first shift, which Shaker was running.

For the next two hours, he decided to return to the inventory, even though it was too late: the boss had apparently taken his latest recordings. He didn't start over anew, but on a new list, he picked up where he knew he had left off, and completed the inventory check despite the odds. His boss probably wouldn't see it until Three Dee was called in for a scolding, though.

With ten minutes to go before his shift started, the pony took a rest in earnest, waiting at the foot of the stairs that led up to the DJ booth above the action. There was a mirror for the featured artists to quickly check themselves in before ascending to electronic nirvana, and Three Dee took this moment to do so for himself, so that he might not appear so work-trodden.

Upon doing so, he brushed and patted down his dark purple coat, and checked his cutie mark. A quill, with a small trail of designs, in succession: the numeral 3, the letter D, and before those, a bass cleft. It seemed like such a general cutie mark, with an unspecific skill; for Three Dee's special talent was writing. And not just letter writing. Novel writing, nonfiction writing, poetic writing, playwriting, screenwriting, and even mathematical writing, though none of them were his strong points. His strong point was songwriting. And the bass cleft was a testament to how beautiful his voice was too, though it paled in comparison to his writing talents.

But it never seemed to matter, especially in these troubling times for him. He was a warehouse laborer, and a bartender. He barely made enough to pay rent, and he scrapped meals as they came by. His talents weren't being recognized. They were almost pointless…

Three Dee returned to his appearance and proceeded to fix his mane: red on his left side, blue on his right, in a semi-straight, wavy style that was cut fairly short. His short tail was the same way, but it didn't need attention itself.

"Dat plot!" He heard someone shout, and he squeaked and blushed before spinning around. Sure, he could write incredible romance, but handling real life spunk was a different matter entirely. Fortunately, it was only Vinyl Scratch, so he managed to relax a little. She laughed.

"Brony, you're never going to get a mare if you're so shy in the ways of love," Vinyl purposefully dragged out that last word and wiggled it in her mouth, further embarrassing Three Dee.

"Vinyl!" He complained, before realizing what her presence meant. All hints of blushing dropped away as he began to desperately search for a clock.

"Relax, I'm way early. You've got a few minutes before your shift, and then after that, I'll be up." The DJ said.

"I can't wait." The purple pony responded, before Vinyl got serious again.

"Hey, listen, I know how hard gigs are to come by for ponies just starting out, especially in Canterlot. But I'm getting you some connections from when I first started out. You're a great musician, and an awesome DJ, Three Dee. And you try to fool me, but I can tell that things are bad for you right now, and that you feel like nothings coming for you. But believe me, there's something for you on its way now," Vinyl then smiled. "I feel it."

Three Dee was frozen in place. He didn't particularly like it when Vinyl Scratch simply tore him apart so easily, but it was a fact of their friendship. Silently, he shuffled to the side, allowing his friend the full view of the mirror. It took him another minute before his normal thought functions resumed and he had something to say: "Knock 'em dead, DJ PON-3!"

"Always!" Vinyl Scratch smirked before beginning her climb, and with that, Three Dee exited the backrooms and went into the club proper. There were masses of ponies—many more than usual, all turning out for DJ PON-3. The colt easily maneuvered through them, the experience from his past months proving valuable when he noticed a nearby clubber tense up. Three Dee quickly sidestepped him as the pony blew chunks where he had stood a moment ago.

There's one in every crowd, Three Dee smiled and shook his head in bemusement, and squeezed through a small gathering of mares, some of which eyed him, while others attempted to dance with him, pressing their hips close. He rapidly escaped without a word, and let his entrance behind the bar talk for him. Shaker was nearby, serving a couple of drinks in martini glasses to a pair of lovely mares, and as he took the cash plus tip, turned to spot Three Dee in their relative sanctuary behind the bar as well. He walked over, and they silently brohoofed as Shaker passed.

Tag in, Three Dee thought, before he set to work as a colt and his marefriend beckoned for his attention.

A few minutes later, there was a change in the air. He felt the bass reverberating in his rib cage, and noticed that there was no steady beat anymore. A loud cheer erupted from the dance floor, and the dozens of ponies dancing before stomped in approval, eagerly anticipating the entrance beat of DJ PON-3. There was a humming in the air, and Three Dee knew what was coming.

A grinding synth started to repeat, in between slow, syncopated beats. There were lyrics, but he couldn't hear them. There was too much groove, too much power, in the music Vinyl Scratch was starting to mix. It was almost mocking of the club atmosphere, but that's what DJ PON-3 was popular for. Mosh pits were not uncommon at her sets, and she had a little something for everypony.

And then, relative silence as a small, steady strum wreaked havoc through the air. And then, everything went crazy. The beat launched, the rapping started in earnest—fast and pressuring. The song did what it did best: assured the crowd that DJ PON-3 was ready. If she could, she'd play the night! She had the stamina. As for the obligation: none at all, though. Two hours weren't going to be enough to Three Dee. It never was.

DJ PON-3 began to take them up from the initial fury, as the synth chords of dance started on a loop she spun herself, live. There was a female voice, and a final sendoff to her first song, followed by cascades of sound, soothing the club back into its traditional beats, of dance and rhythm, of finding one night to lose, if only to forget the troubles awaiting in the real worlds.

Three Dee's work began. Someponies just needed water. Others were ready to pound the night away, but overall, he was glad that most were taking their drinks in moderation. It was apparent that this would be a performance worth remembering. They always were.

"Shout out to my favorite bartender over there," Vinyl's voice rung out in a transitional phase of the music. "He gets me my drinks on time. Makes a mean Molotov cocktail."

Three Dee blushed and laughed. That was a joke, and many ponies in the crowd laughed too. The dominant voice was the crescendo of cheers for the job well done.

"Tip well," she reminded them, as the beats launched again with a new fury. And the tips flowed in, just as they tended to. That was the other benefit of working when a DJ he knew played a set: supplemental money. Not only did he get to watch them perform, but the money he could make off the tips would ensure him a break—something he so desperately needed after his injury grounded him.

Tonight was better than usual as well. The tips were big or plentiful. Sometimes both. Regardless, he would be okay after this night, for a fair reprieve in his work was long overdue.

Two hours later, the clock struck one, and DJ PON-3 was wrapping up her set with a dubstep remix of a classic club and party song—and just as well, it was her song, and her remix. The crowd went wild as the introductory beats vanished, and the main riff faded in: they knew what song this was, and they knew they were going to have a good time.

Shaker returned, and tagged into his duties, before absentmindedly nudging Three Dee to enjoy the last of the set. He didn't hesitate as he joined the throbbing crowds that had swelled in the night. Many ponies recognized him as he stepped forward to lay a claim on the dance floor: some patted him on the back. Others pressed in close, but not too close, seeing as there was some respect left for the pony still on the clock.

He shut his eyes. Every hoof hit the ground in time with the slow beats building up to the drop. He was alone. He was here. That was all that mattered: he began to dance in a swaying motion, lost to the synths and drums. He felt it. It was coming. It was upon them.

The drop. Shake that.

Three Dee was suddenly a flurry of motion as he spun and shifted weight on the dance floor. A circle had to be cleared as his dancing fluidity overcame all sense of thought, and ponies were cheering him on. His smile was a rarity itself: this was who he was. Who he was meant to be. Someone incredible.

His dancing slowed for the next buildup, and other ponies pressed in close as they sung in earnest with him, their creaky vocals overcome by the speakers above. The drop was coming again, and they knew it. When it hit, they shuffled, and bounced as one into the finale of the song. The remix ended abruptly, but suitably, as Three Dee crashed back to earth, his ears suddenly overloaded by the deafening scream of DJ PON-3 fans. From above, he could vaguely make out Vinyl Scratch in his haze of release, waving to the crowd, spotting him, and lifting her goggles to wink at him.

Smiling, he rushed through the crowd, searching for the exit marked "Authorized Ponies Only." He found it and crashed through, away from the breath of the infectious crowd, which was overcome with power, sense, and a hint of lust.

He was on his way to the stairs around the curve, ready to congratulate what he considered his inspiration, when trouble struck.

"Three! Dee!" He heard a fearsome voice boost in the quiet environment past the club's soundproofed walls. The pony in question paled, before turning toward it, only to be met with the sight of a large, buff earth pony, with a black coat and streaks of white in his mane of darkness as well. "My office! Now!"

Three Dee sighed and hung his head as he retired himself to his fate. Such was what happened when he didn't finish inventory on time.

Minutes later, after a scalding, one-sided conversation, words left the lips of the pony he called his boss—words that forever changed the course of his life, though he would not know it now.

"You're fired."

Two words. Perhaps three if a contraction served as two itself, but they froze Three Dee in place as they unexpectedly left the mouth of their bearer. His jaw opened and closed, trying to find words. He tried to think of what he would write instead, and soon enough, a response came to mind.

"But…Shadow Stride…why?" He croaked, mentally berating himself. He would have slammed his head into the wall if he had written that without better reasoning.

"Simple, Three Dee: tough times, tough measures." The pony answered sternly. "I wish I could keep you, I do, but the money is worth its weight. And lately, you've haven't been worth yours."

"I've been injured, though! And on the premises!" Three Dee protested weakly.

"I know. I know," Shadow Stride's expression seemed to soften a bit. "I never like doing this to any pony. Especially those I could rely on so faithfully in the past. It would be easier if you had no excuse for your diminished abilities, but you unfortunately do. I needed you to adapt to them, to overcome them."

"Can't you find me something else to do around here? I can't take inventory on a broken wing, but—but there must be something!" The purple pony, though, was out of options, cornered by logic, even in his own head. He couldn't blame Shadow Stride: he might have done the same if their positions were switched.

"I'm sorry, Three Dee. The best I can offer you is a suitable amount of bits to keep you afloat until you can find a new job." Shadow Stride's words were almost absolute. Three Dee sighed.

"Send my last paychecks in the mail. It's been a pleasure," he murmured dejectedly, his night thoroughly ruined.

He was quick to leave the premises, but not before finding a piece of paper and writing a note on it.

Vinyl,

Congratulations on a wonderful performance, as usual. I wish I could offer my praise in person, but something has come up. Call for me please.

Three Dee

It was all he could bear to write at the moment. He didn't want to ruin the DJs natural high after a performance, but he knew that despite the unwritten words, Vinyl would notice something horribly wrong between the lines and come find him with restrained pursuit. Confident of her line of though, he wrote his friend's name on the outside and gave it to a roadie, who promised he would get it to her.

He left the club and dragged himself back home through stubbornly empty streets. When he reached into his shabby apartment building, and climbed the stairs to his apartment, and entered, he glanced around. There was little inside. The musical equipment in the corner, and the stacks of parchment on the desk, crammed in between the wall and bed. The kitchen was dank and dark, and the bathroom was rusty. This was all he had left.

He somehow managed to make it to bed, in the covers of which he began to cry. Try as he might, he couldn't sleep: he still suffered from insomnia, and there was just no rest for the weary anyway.

AN:

Okay. So it's been ages since I've cranked out a fanfiction, and I'm willing to guess that people are shocked that I'm a brony now. Calm down. It was an accident. As it is, I'm currently in college, double majoring in creative writing and playwriting/screenplay. And for screenplay, we had to watch a cartoon we had never watched before and comment on its screenplay. Naturally, our curiosity got the best of us, so most of use watch MLP: FiM, and now it's just a class of bronies. It happens. Or not.

But anyway, to those who're are willing to read, thank you, and this story is just beginning. Please review: I used to live on them, and now I'm starving for more. So here we go:

Disclaimer: I do not own My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, the My Little Pony toy franchise, the Hub, Hasbro, or anything affiliated with the topics written above. This is a fan-made piece of work, and not intended as canon.

(Although if you want to believe it's true, by all means, go ahead.)

Random Disclaimer: I do not own cheese. That is all.

Constructive criticism please, and no flames. Don't let my previously mentioned studies intimidate you: this fanfiction is a lot more carelessly written. Makes it all the more fun. ^^

I will answer questions as well.