Tomorrow I will visit my proud steed, and deck him out in garlands of roses, then spring nimbly onto his back sidesaddle, with my gown draping elegantly down one side to the ground, and he will begin to piaffe (although round and on the bit, not with this weird S-shaped neck) as I take all four reins into one hand, the other held out to my side for no good reason except, perhaps, because I can, and then he will respond to my thought and move forward into passage effortlessly.
Wait, my horse is black. Wrong horse, wrong fantasy.
Tomorrow, I will visit my proud steed, and he will have found the opportunity between this evening and that hour to roll vigorously in a mud puddle, and then proceed to slobber all over me and rub his head because he has an itch, thus making me filthier than he. And so forth.