I'm running again. I'm always running.
Forever pulling this gargantuan behind me. Four strapping stallions signed onto this job six months ago. They are still working. We are still working.
Ponies need to go places, and we have to accommodate.
What is rest, anyway? One is well-rested when he is not tired. I'm not tired. Am I rested?
We don't need sleep to rest. Adrenaline keeps us alert. Coffee, gulped down in a few precious seconds of standstill, gives us energy,
Evening Star stumbles as he runs, but we help him up. The beast behind us must never catch up. We pull it along, but it has power beyond us; it will turn on us the minute we still our hooves. So, quickly, quickly, we must run.
These ropes are chafing, burning my skin through my coat. But all will be okay.
We pull up to a stop, and the ponies board. The boss appears next to us in a flash of magic, gives us a toothy grin. "C'mon boys," she tells us. "Perk up. We'll all be out of a job soon, anyhow. Might as well make it last."
I close my eyes, relishing the cool feeling of sun on my eyelids. How long since we last stopped? A week? A month? We take cat naps here and there. The days all blend together; one sunrise into the next.
She's right, you know. We've passed other machines, powered by steam and coal, not stallions. Our muscles, built up over years of sweat, are equal to a few shovelfuls of black rocks. They can go faster. They save bits, since they certainly don't have to pay anypony to pull.
But until they let us go, we have to keep running. The cars are full, the doors are closed, the whistle blows. It's time for us to be off.