I was out in nature, miles from civilization, relaxing against a tree in a bed of moss. At my disposal, from spring to winter, were the four seasons. A flute, accompanied by an African drum, set the mood. The trees joined in with their quiet, shy voices, little more than whispers. The sun was just starting on its long, slow journey to bed, giving me plenty of time to write.
I drew inspiration from nature. Birds, clouds, storms, waves, volcanos, everything. It was all spread out before me, all I had to do is choose my destination. I moved to the beach as the sun drifted down lazily. It hid momentarily behind a cloud, and a litter of sun rays were born, and they scampered across the sky in all directions. As the sun slipped below the horizon, I moved closer to my fire, its glow surrounding the immediate area with a warm atmosphere. An ocarina lent its sad, longing tune to the soundtrack of my fantasy. Finally, the crowning moment. The stars came out to play in the protective arms of the Milky Way, which arced majestically across the night sky. Lying on my back, I started counting Heaven's citizens but of course I had to give up, so I settled for admiring their endless beauty.
As reality returns, the last wisps of my dream drift away, and my room returns to normal. But, looking down at my once empty sheet of paper now filled with beautiful, elegant words, I'm reassured that Writer's Paradise really does exist.
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